Radioactive Love
by MidnightBlast
Summary: She really didn't expect to find a man bleeding out on her kitchen floor that night. But he had been there. And like exposure to neutron radiation, Lucas North was slowly contaminating her - in every way possible - and it might just be the best thing. Until it kills her. [Lucas North/OC]
1. Kitchen Blood

**Hello, all! This has been bouncing around in my brain for a couple of years, courtesy of the wonderful Mr. Armitage in MI-5/Spooks and dear friends who helped me through the technical details. It just took me until now to nearly finish it.**

 **Some notes to start:  
1\. I don't own MI-5/Spooks. Or Lucas North (tho, I kind of wish I did).  
2\. I'm an American playing pretend in London, so please forgive the Americanisms for these British characters.  
3\. It's quite difficult to develop a company name that doesn't actually exist in this modern age of the internet. So, to avoid any confusion with real life companies because I really don't want to be sued, I went for 'The Hobbit' reference. **

**Thanks for stopping by! And stay tuned...  
**

 **Rated T (for now): Language**

 **Chapter 1: Kitchen Blood**

There was mud in her hair. She had tried in vain to get some of the globs out before leaving the power plant, but it was pointless really. There was mud in her boots, on her jeans, her badge, smeared on her drawings. Fucking rain. Fucking construction. Fucking project.

It felt good to swear after a long day of professionalism. The Durin Construction Group was a bunch of wannabe engineer renegades who pulled this whole pump system replacement design out of their asses and expected it to work. Shame on them. Double fucking shame on them because it was a nuclear power plant. And as the plant's project engineer, Celia couldn't stand it. Every day, something didn't match or wouldn't fit, and she had to bite her tongue to hold back every swear word in her arsenal.

But not right now. She was officially off the clock and could do whatever the hell she wanted to get over the day. Like sleep. Just sleep. She couldn't remember the last time she clocked 8 hours of sleep. And it was Thursday. Tomorrow was her day off. After a nice, long, hot shower – or better yet a bath, followed by a shower – she was going to bed to pass out. Never mind her phone or the emails that piled up. Tonight was her night.

She pulled her car to the kerb with a satisfied sigh, pulling the key from the ignition and tugging at the damp, stiff fabric of her jeans. God, how she couldn't wait to shed her wet, soiled clothes for something warm and soft. She pulled her backpack out of the backseat, locking the car in her wake as she approached her place, inserting the key into the lock.

Her stomach dropped as she felt no resistance from the deadbolt. The door was unlocked. Had she really been so wrapped up in work this morning that she forgot to lock the door? Her senses heightened, prepared for the worst, as she pushed the door open, glancing anxiously around.

No lights were turned on and nothing looked disturbed. Maybe she was just that scatterbrained this morning. It wouldn't be the first time she had gone off and forgotten something so obvious thanks to this job. She flipped the nearest light switch, stooping to untie her mud-caked boots. They would have to be cleaned in the morning, but that was for tomorrow.

She stepped onto the laminate entry way in her moist socks, sighing in relief to finally have her feet free, stopping as her eyes landed on the living room carpet.

What…what the hell was that stain? It couldn't be wine since she hadn't opened a bottle in several days; besides that, it still looked wet. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she realized what is also looked like. Blood. She gulped nervously, gripping her backpack tighter as she moved more into her flat.

More blood red drip spots greeted her eyes as she surveyed the carpet. Surely there wasn't…someone in her flat? Her heart raced at the thought, adrenaline sharpening her senses. Though, if this person was really bleeding all over her carpet, then how could he or she be much of a threat?

She flipped on the kitchen light, swiftly rounding the kitchen doorjamb with a white-knuckle grip on her backpack, ready to swing it in defense. She froze at the sight before her.

"Oh my god…." A man was kneeling in the middle of her kitchen floor in a pool of blood. Her kitchen towels were clutched tightly in his crimson stained hands, pressed against the left side of his abdomen. He didn't turn his ebony haired head at her words, much to her surprise – in fact, he gave no response to her presence at all. "Who…who are you?" She fought to keep her voice steady, sidestepping into the kitchen to get a better look at him.

The defined angles of his face were pale and pained, his eyes closed as though in deep, pensive meditation. His dark coat and jeans did nothing to help his pallor as she watched him struggle in stiff, shallow breaths.

"Someone in need of medical attention." His voice was deep and precise, concentrated to manage his pain.

"Then what are you doing in my kitchen?" She countered, forcing another nervous swallow. "I don't know how to fix…whatever has you bleeding on my kitchen floor."

"Bullet wound. I can't be sure what it hit," he drew a sharp wheeze, "but I have a good idea."

"Oh god," she gasped, swinging her pack around to scramble for her cell phone, "please stay alive until the ambulance arrives."

"No." He stiffly responded. "No EMS."

"But, you must get to a hospital…you'll die otherwise."

"I don't deny that," he said wryly through another wheezing breath, "but it would be simpler for us both if you drove."

"If I drive…." She trailed off, lost to the absurdity of the situation that she couldn't comprehend. This was supposed to be her night…but the more she looked at him, the more she knew her damp jeans, her shower, her bed would have to wait. She simply couldn't afford to let this stranger die in her kitchen.

"Ok…fine. Let's go. I don't want you to die…whoever you are."

"I won't hurt you." His voice was noticeably weaker than before yet he slowly rose to his feet, swaying slightly as his eyes finally opened. Her breath caught to see the ice blue color, unfocused as they were, on the border of delirium.

"This way, come on." She backpedaled out of the kitchen slowly, trying to hold his eye contact to help keep him focused. Surprisingly, he managed to walk on his own feet, not asking for help even though he was sluggish and unsteady in his movements.

She turned frantically to the entryway closet, fishing out of a pair of flipflops, ripping off her damp socks. Fortunately, he was moving slowly enough that she was still able to reach the front door before him.

She watched him wearily approach her car, half expecting him to drop dead in the front lawn. Grimacing, she cursed her lack of foresight as he dropped with a hiss to passenger seat, already smearing it with blood.

"Why were you shot?" She couldn't help but ask as she pulled into the street.

"I tried to stop a bad guy." His rich voice was starting to slur, drawing her concerned gaze.

"Hey, hey…stay with me." She pleaded, instinctively reaching a hand over to his forearm, gripping the solid muscle in a gentle shake.

"I'm still here." Only his lips moved, barely. The rest of him was amazingly corpselike, eyes pensively closed, head tipped back against the headrest. His skin was so pale in the darkness. She pressed the accelerator harder, praying for green lights all the way.

"How do you define bad guy?" She asked, trying to keep him engaged, to draw him out of his head and the pain. "Are you police?" She swallowed nervously. "A criminal?"

"Neither." He answered simply with what she wasn't sure was a faint laugh or hiss of pain.

"We're almost there." She reassured him, rounding the last turn.

"I'll make it." His voice was eerily confident, almost like he could control his body from bleeding out.

"No offense, but I don't think you get a say in the matter." She thought she saw his lips curl in the bright lights of the ER entrance awning. "Stay here. I'll get someone."

"No. I can walk." His hand rose to the door, fumbling with the handle before it swung open, his legs slowly following. She shook her head uncertainly, knowing he needed to stop moving but not coming up with words to stop him. His steps were short, measured as though every last ounce of his strength was propelling him forward. She clung close to his side, ready to catch him.

"Please, we need help." She called out across the lobby as they entered, hoping someone in charge would see how close to collapse this man was.

"Yes, miss," a pleasant faced nurse appeared out from behind the main desk, her face creasing with worry as she studied him, "what happened?"

"Bullet." He answered, his eyes dropping closed, weaving where he stood. The nurse wrapped a steadying arm around him.

"We'll need more information from you both, but I'll take you back. Mary!" She called out to the other nurse at the main station, looking down to the blood-soaked towels still clutched against his stomach. "Get William out here. And security." The bleeding man offered a sloppy shake of his head as another attendant—a young man, presumably William approached, wrapping his other arm in a firm hold. He slumped forward in their hold, leaning down to the nurse's ear and whispering something. Celia stared curiously, watching his lips move, but unable to make out anything he was saying. The nurse pulled back from him with a concerned look of alarm.

"William, stay with him a moment. And Albert," she looked to the newly arrived security guard, "don't let her leave." Just as Celia opened her mouth to protest, the nurse walked back to the main desk, bending over a computer, typing something. Her mouth opened in a gasp as she read whatever was on the screen and looked back up to them. "We need to notify Dr. Bailey at once that this man requires his attention. Surgery will most likely be needed." She rounded the desk in an urgent jog. "William, help him back – now. Start prepping him."

"Come along, sir." William encouraged softly, guiding the bleary dark-haired man towards the heavy double doors. Celia looked after them, confused, unable to decide if she should follow. What the hell had he told the nurse? What had she looked up?

"What? Who is he?" She asked at last, turning back to the pleasant faced nurse who was now talking in low whispers with the security guard. "What's going on?" Both the guard and the nurse turned towards her as if they'd forgotten about her until now.

"By law, you are required to wait here until further notice," the nurse started. "Albert will keep an eye on you until you're needed." Celia looked to the guard, noting how remarkably alert he looked for the late-night hour.

"Required by law?" She echoed, her mind racing—what about her car? Her uncomfortable jeans? Her day off tomorrow? "How long will I have to wait?" The nurse offered a sympathetic smile.

"Too soon to know. It'll depend on Mr. North's condition."

"Mr. North?" She hated only speaking in questions. "The man that William just took back."

"Yes, him. Now please," she placated with a smile and gesture, "I need to go assist Dr. Bailey, but please wait here. Albert will be keeping watch. We'll let you know when we need you. Thank you."

Celia stood dumbfounded as the nurse turned and headed for the back, presumably to tend to the mysterious Mr. North. How could that possibly be a real name? And who was he to command such immediate attention?

"Can I have you name, please?" She shook from her raging questions at the guard—Albert's—words.

"Celia…Celia Gordon."

"Miss Gordon, how did you come into Mr. North's company tonight?" She wanted to laugh at the formality of the question.

"I came into his company when I came home from work and found him bleeding all over my kitchen." Albert looked at her dubiously, his eyes searching. "That's it…I swear. I didn't even know his name was Mr. North until just now." She couldn't be sure if her believed her or not, but she wasn't sure she cared. She couldn't do anything about it either way.

"As Pamela already informed you, we need you to remain here. I can work with what you've given me for now, but more questions will have to be answered in time."

"Ok…I really don't know anything else." She tried again, hoping maybe he would cut her a break, take pity on her. Her damp jeans were starting to chafe – and couldn't he see the mud in her hair?

"Please, just have a seat." He gestured to the nearest bank of waiting room chairs. "I'll come get you when they're ready for you."

"When they're ready for me?" Her mind sparked with fear fueled by uncertainty. Just who or what had she gotten herself tangled up in by helping him?

"Please, Miss Gordon, have a seat. I cannot divulge anything else at this time."

"What about my car? It's out under the awning."

"It will be taken of, if you'll please be so kind." He motioned again to the nearest chairs as she sighed, looking down at the plastic chairs in disappointment.

So, this was to be her night. Condemned to waiting in the ER until god knows when. She huffed in annoyance, dropping to sit and shifting about on the stiff chair cushion to make herself comfortable. She should have taken the two minutes to change her jeans before they left. A yawn overtook her as she sat, glancing to the clock. 11:49 pm. She sighed again, resigning herself to settle in for the long haul.

xxx

"Miss Gordon? Excuse me…please wake up, Miss Gordon."

Her eyes cracked open, squinting in the bright fluorescent light, groaning at the stiffness in her neck.

"Yes? Hi," she offered a weak smile at the nurse, Pamela, from earlier, "what time is it?" A yawn followed the end of her words.

"Almost 4:30 am." Celia's face scrunched in displeasure as she shifted in the god-awful chair. "You're wanted in the back now. The gentleman you brought in is stable and out of surgery." She straightened, slowly rising to her feet, suppressing another yawn and resisting the urge to stretch.

"How is he doing?" She followed Pamela back through the double doors.

"Poor dear is still lucky to be alive. The doctor was surprised Mr. North was even still conscious, he had lost so much blood. But I'm happy to report, though, that he should make a full recovery." Pamela stopped outside a room with a cracked door, nodding at it with a smile. "They want to see you alone."

"Who's they?" She asked, brow furrowing as Pamela's smile tightened with faint annoyance.

"Just go in, dear. I wouldn't keep them waiting." Pamela knocked soundly on the door, pushing it open as Celia stepped tentatively forward. Her eyes fell first to the bed where the man—Mr. North—peacefully reclined, still ungodly pale, a collection of tubes and wires leading between him and the surrounding equipment. She hadn't really noticed earlier in the rush of it all, but he was strikingly handsome. Was it wrong to think someone unconscious in a hospital bed so attractive?

"Miss Gordon." Her eyes darted to a tall, severe blond woman whose voice conveyed all authority in soft, round tones. Celia couldn't help but be jealous of how put together this woman looked for 4:30 am. Was this Mr. North's girlfriend? Wife?

"Yes, the nurse said you wanted to see me." She looked between the woman and the shorter, older man behind her who had yet to speak.

"Ros Meyers, Security Services." Celia's eyes widened in surprised confusion, turning to the man in the bed.

"And him?"

"Lucas."

"Security Services, also?"

"We all are." The older man stepped forward, congenially holding out his hand. "Harry Pearce."

"Celia Gordon." She gave her name on instinct, shaking Harry's hand.

"The doctors are calling the surgery a success," he said, "they say he should make a complete recovery in a month or so, maybe less. Depends how he cooperates." Ros' face tightened in annoyed lines on Harry's words, already dreading the fights ahead to keep him in bed to recover.

"I'm glad to hear it," Celia said with a small nod, fighting back a yawn, "he didn't show it, but I know he had to be a in a lot of pain."

"He thrives on it—uses it to keep pushing himself," Ros said sagely, "he has known little else in the last eight years."

"Poor man." Celia turned her tired eyes to the bed, further studying the strong line of his jaw, the fall of his raven hair. Suddenly she wanted to see those ice blue eyes again. Why couldn't she have just met him somewhere normal?

"Where did you find him?" Harry's soft question cut through her thoughts as she turned back to him and Ros.

"I found him in the middle of my kitchen floor, in a pool of blood," she shook her head almost in disbelief as she continued to recount, "I came home from work and found the door unlocked. I don't remember if I left it unlocked this morning, but I don't know how he could have possibly picked it in his condition. There was blood on the carpet and the trail lead me to him. That's it." She shrugged her shoulders, not sure what else to say or what else they wanted to hear.

"Did he ask you to bring him here?" The continually collected tone of Ros' voice was unnerving. Celia had the distinct impression that Ros knew the answers before even asking the questions.

"Yes, well—not here specifically, but to a hospital. He said it would be simpler if I drove….," Celia's eyes widened in sudden uncertainty, "was somebody after him? Are they…would they know about my home?"

"No, Miss Gordon," Harry said comfortingly, offering a reassuring smile. "We have checked your place and neighborhood since we were notified of Lucas' admission. You will find your kitchen cleaned and in pristine condition. Thank you for your help this evening."

"You…you had my place cleaned? In the…," she paused, unable to recall exactly how much time had passed, "while I was asleep in the waiting room?"

"He was looking for a place to hide just long enough to patch himself up," Harry said gently, "you shouldn't have to suffer from the inconvenience of his decision."

"I…well, thank you, I think." The absurdity of the situation was staggering. Security Services – fucking MI-5 – had her kitchen cleaned because their officer bleed all over the place. She supposed it made since, but still…who the hell had a story like that?

"It was the least we could do," Ros offered a brief flash of a smile, "thank you, again. Go get some sleep." Celia snorted a soft laugh, shaking her head as her eyes fell to her disgustingly stiff clothes.

"I cannot wait. Thank you; goodnight. I'm – I'm glad your officer will be alright."

Harry and Ros offered up polite farewells and cordial smiles, watching the mud-splattered, exhausted woman turn for the door and quietly slip into the hallway.

"At least her story matches what the crew found at her place." Ros said softly, eyes still trained on the door.

"I didn't expect to hear any differently," Harry simply said, turning to Ros with a distantly amused look, "she was just a victim of Lucas' circumstance. They found no sign that her front door lock had been picked, so she unintentionally invited trouble—she just probably didn't expect it to arrive in the form of Lucas North."

"And now he is our problem," bitter annoyance tinged Ros' words as she glared at the bed, "he is going to be hell to deal with. It's a survival instinct for him now…he won't take bed rest willingly."

"Then we'll just tie him down if we have to, but he'll get there. Meanwhile," Harry cast one last fatherly glance towards the bed before he moved to gather his coat, "we still have jobs to do."


	2. Game Wine

**And onward we go. Something else I should have mentioned: I see this story taking place somewhere in the latter half of Season 7 to early part of Season 8, before Sarah works him over.**

 **Thank you to those who are reading - and special thanks to Nietzsche for reaching out: I hope you continue to enjoy!**

 **Chapter 2: Game Wine**

Time was flying. The construction project was falling further and further behind schedule. The design had fundamental flaws and everybody was pointing fingers. Her boss, continually red-faced, had been short-tempered with her for weeks. It wasn't good, but it had become the daily norm.

She hit send on the email, turning to cross that item off her to-do list before glancing absently out the window. It had been tough—it was still tough—to completely put the MI-5 incident from her mind. Flashes of the handsome Mr. North's hospital bed-ridden form appeared in her mind and questions bounced off the walls of her brain without answers. Distantly, she wondered if she would ever see him again. Had he actually made a complete recovery from his injuries?

She had wasted so much time thinking about that night, and this afternoon had not been an exception. Her eyes drifted to the clock in the lower right of her computer screen, giving her head a quick shake. Her productivity was already dropping off at an exponential rate, so would leaving thirty minutes early really hurt anyone?

"You won't tell anyone if I leave, will you?" She called out, casting a sideways glance over the cubicle wall.

"Are you really popping off early?" Vicky didn't turn from her computer as she spoke, the light of her monitor bouncing off her thick-framed glasses and blonde hair.

"Thinking about it. What I have on my to-do list can wait until tomorrow. I have a lovely bottle of wine that's waiting for me." It wouldn't be the first night she spent in a bottle on account of this job.

"I'd rather have a lovely bloke at home waiting for me…."

"Same here," Celia agreed, "but that's the price we paid when we took these jobs. They only keep us alive to support the plant; anything else just gets in the way." She heard the sliding of a chair on carpet, the protest of the cubicle wall as Vicky leaned against it, overlooking Celia's desk.

"I thought things with Jeffery would actually work out," she shook her head wistfully, "he was the perfect package—perfect in everything except his understanding."

"Enh, Jeffery was kind of a snake. He was only after someone to show off. Except, that in order for him to brag about your job, you actually had to keep doing your job."

"Such a waste," Vicky shook her head, blowing a longing sigh, "he was so handsome and playful." Celia laughed softly, spinning back around to glance at her computer. No emails within a 15-minute window – it was a sign – maybe the universe would actually cooperate for her to leave early today.

"Well, I am going to get out of here before something blows up—before this project gives the plant manager another heart attack."

"It's just a matter of time. Your project is doomed and you know it. Your only saving grace is that you are not directly responsible, you're just playing the go-between."

"And it couldn't be worse." Celia logged off, reaching for her backpack and phone. "We still on for dinner and a movie tomorrow?"

"Oh, absolutely," Vicky gushed, "I need a major dose of pho and Ryan Gosling."

"Good," Celia agreed with a smile and a nod, "we'll talk times tomorrow, yeah?"

"Yeah," Vicky offered a small wave as she sat back down. "See ya tomorrow."

"Night." Celia turned and fled, pushing through the engineering building, exiting main security and moving for her car. Two nights away from work would be heaven. Despite the project woes, she was in a strange lull where her boss wasn't yet demanding that she work twelve-hour days. And she intended to enjoy every minute. A date with her wine tonight. Another date with her friend tomorrow night.

Work was stressful but it was nights like this one and tomorrow that made it bearable.

The hour-plus drive home was uneventful, stopping only to pick up a salad for dinner. Something quick, easy and reasonably healthy. Maybe she'd treat herself to a book, too, along with the bottle of wine to round out her so-called extravagant night. It wasn't often that she let herself start reading a book for fear of never having the time to finish.

She chewed through mouthfuls of salad, glancing around her kitchen. Same place, same furniture, same life for the last thirteen years. Coworkers, friends and boyfriends had all come and gone, yet she stayed status-quo. It had been ages since she last had a proper date and Eric hadn't been all that remarkable. He had a dead-end job and no drive to do anything different. As if her life wasn't boring enough already.

Her gaze strayed to the floor, her mind instantly recalling the wounded, bleeding MI-5 officer. It was probably creepy that she could still recall his attractive profile, his deep voice dulled with pain. What would he sound like normally? Just on the phone or in person. What about his smile? His laugh? It was just her luck that he was MI-5, though. Completely unattainable, completely busy, completely dangerous, completely unconcerned about her petty life.

Oh well. That's what wine was for. She made enough money, lived alone, and worked too much to own pets, so she spoiled herself accordingly. Good wine, clothes, purses, shoes, food. They were nice feminine treats to contrast the masculine world of her work.

The cork popped free of the bottle, releasing the closed-up aroma of dark, lush cherries. It had been a long time since she'd been able to enjoy a good bottle of wine at home, and this one promised to be stellar according to the label at the store. Distantly, the thought nagged at her that she shouldn't be so comfortable drinking alone, but as she turned to get a wine glass, she found she really didn't care.

She stopped mid-step at the ring of the doorbell. Her brow furrowed as she glanced to the clock. 7:56 pm. It was too late for a delivery. Maybe it was a neighbor? She debated answering, finally deciding it was the neighborly thing to do. She cast a quick glance in the entryway mirror, confirming her chestnut hair was still in place, her makeup still presentable. She opened the door, her face falling slack with surprise, her mind blanking.

It was him. The MI-5 – Lucas North. She stared dumbly at his refined features, mesmerized by the intense blue eyes. His skin was still fair, but without the deathly pallor; it further added to his allure with the sharp contrast to his dark hair. A flash of a grin curled his lips as he looked back at her.

"Hello, again." His voice was soft; a rich enticing sound.

"Hello again, yourself," a smile formed around her words, "you look much better this time around." His dark jeans fit him criminally well, coupled with a sleek black coat that teased the collar of a dark blue dress shirt. He did, indeed, look much better than before.

"And I have you to thank for it," his eyes softened with gratitude, "that's why I stopped by." She breathed a silent laugh, her heart beating faster under his intense gaze.

"That's thoughtful of you; unnecessary, though."

"Not every woman who finds a man bleeding out in her kitchen would be so kind or remain so calm." She couldn't tell if he was fishing, but she had nothing to hide.

"I've been around enough construction accidents…blood doesn't bother me." She watched his head tilt forward, the interested question quirking his brow. She shifted against the front door awkwardly. "You're welcome to come inside…if you can stay for a bit, that is." She felt her cheeks flush under her awkward invitation. "Yeah, you should come inside. I've just opened a bottle of wine in the kitchen – it's breathing. So yeah, please." He paused for the briefest of seconds, as if startled that she had actually extended the invitation. But then he gave a quick nod, taking a step forward.

"Ok. Thank you." She pulled the front door back further to allow him to enter. "I didn't know wine could breathe."

"Oh, yes," she closed the door behind him, turning back around. "The flavor of a wine changes as it's exposed to air – opens up all the different flavors. So, letting wine breath is just exposing it to air." She hoped wasn't talking too much. But it was a nervous, excited reaction as she watched him shed his coat, her composure slowly catching up to the reality of the unexpected.

"Hard to argue with that, I suppose." His eyes quickly scanned the carpet and the unremarkable floor of her kitchen as he followed her, not detecting any hint of the mess he had left behind.

"I'm glad that you're better." She said with a warm friendliness as she reached for two wine glasses from the nearest cabinet. "I was rather worried that you were just going to stop answering my questions…" The rest of her thought went unspoken as she met his gaze, taken aback at the piercing gaze.

"It will take more than that to fully do me in." He reassured dismissively, watching her walk back to the counter where the open wine bottle rested. "I sincerely wanted to thank you for what you did…you had every reason to the call the police, or to just leave me on your kitchen floor."

"Well, you were right—you were in no position to hurt me. Besides, taking you to the hospital would have ensured you got your just desserts regardless of who you were." She reached for the bottle with a little smirk, pouring a healthy splash into each glass. "I assume you're off any of those meds that restrict alcohol."

"Finally," his voice was rich with relief, "out of bed, and returned to active duty just earlier this week." She bristled at the reminder of what he was and what he did. And the otherworldliness of the situation—entertaining a handsome, government spy in her kitchen over glasses of wine after saving his life over a month ago. Would anyone believe her?

"Well then, I'd say that calls for a celebratory drink." She picked up a glass, giving the liquid a gentle swirl. The juicy cherries were still present, now with hints of chocolate and cinnamon invading her nose before taking a drink. It was perfect. She caught his eye with a sly smile, proud of her selection. "Oh, this is a good one." He raised the glass to his nose, copying her earlier swirling motion.

"Can't say that I know much about wine." He gave his head a small, uncertain shake. "But it smells delicious." Her mind instantly flashed back to Eric and the first night she introduced him to wine. He had lied through his teeth about possessing a knowledge of wine and refused to ever admit it. She stared back at Lucas as he took a drink.

"Thank you for not feeling like you had to lie about it." His eyes met hers over the edge of his glass, an interested curiosity swirling in the clear depths.

"You have not given me a reason to not trust you." He simply said, watching her smile fill out before she took another drink, catching a stray drop of with her tongue.

"But with that being said, I suppose we still can't really talk about you." She ventured, watching a knowing smirk flash across his face.

"We can, if you ask the right questions."

"Oh." Her lips curled in surprised amusement around the glass, her eyes lighting up. "A challenge…I like those." She tipped her glass, indulging another taste. "So…what's your favorite color?" He started at the question though he didn't visibly show it, tilting his head to ascertain if she was indeed serious. Something determined and inviting in her olive-green eyes told him all he needed to know.

"Um, I—I don't think I've been asked that since primary school….Gray." He settled on an answer at last, not really caring if it was true or not.

"Unlikely – you scrambled for an answer and my kitchen walls are gray." She mock scolded with a small laugh. "My favorite color is blue. Let's try this instead – less open ended – fruits or vegetables?" He didn't care to stop the inadvertent smile curling his lips.

"Fruits."

"Fruits, too. A far superior—if obvious—choice," she nodded, rounding the counter to walk around him towards the living room, "top hat or fedora?"

"Fedora." He followed her into the living room, hearing her scoff at his answer.

"Too predictable," she smiled up at him, shaking her head disparagingly as she lowered to the couch, "you're already the clandestine spy…I thought you would say top hat."

"What makes you think that?" He settled back against the couch cushions, meeting her eyes over her wine glass.

"You certainly look posh enough…I would have wagered you'd worn one before." He shook his head, a quick, succinct motion.

"Never a top hat…or a fedora for that matter." She laughed softly, relaxing under his gaze and mellifluous voice. "You never gave your answer."

"Fedora, too." He laughed, low and rumbling in his throat. "Seashore or mountains?"

"Mountains."

"Such a shame; seashore all the way. Swimming, seafood, the beach."

"Too crowded," he countered with distaste, "a cabin high in the mountains, hiking and hunting during the days, nights around a warm fire…" She leaned more into the cushions, eyeing him with warm affection.

"Are you the voice of experience or a good imagination?"

"Imagination." It was easier to adopt the cliché than admit the truth about his issues with water. He took a drink of wine, watching her watch him, an enticing mix of attraction and amusement evident in her eyes.

"Coffee or tea?" He furrowed his brow in disbelief, offering her a pointed glare.

"That's a dirty question…can you really choose one over the other?" As an Englishman, he felt obliged to choose tea—which he did drink with regularity; but as a security officer, coffee was his lifeblood.

"That's how this game works. My answer is tea. Vile coffee has no place in this world." The little chuckles she drew out of him were so intriguing. She couldn't help but wonder what would draw him into a full-out laugh.

"I'm sorry, but I have to defend coffee. Long days and long nights on a job; there is little else that keeps you going."

"Do you have those a lot?" She asked, hoping she wasn't asking too much.

"Depends on the situation and what's required to resolve it. Some resolve themselves naturally; others require a waiting game."

"That sounds….," she shook her head, not wanting to press her luck, "like something I shouldn't ask you about. Therefore, not part of this game. So, cats or dogs?"

She lost complete track of time. At one point, she got up for the wine bottle, bringing it into the living room for refills. But it had been so easy to get lost with him and the conversation.

"Batman or Superman?" She couldn't help but laugh as she asked the question. The look of confusion growing on his face was priceless as he shook his head.

"You're going first on this one." She laughed softly again, taking a sip of wine.

"I'd have to say Batman. Flying aliens with x-ray vision don't do it for me." He quirked a mischievous brow, his eyes alight.

"And billionaire, playboy orphans do? Is that how you're playing this question – which one are you more attracted to?" Her cheeks burned instant red on his comment, and the impulse to reach out to him, to smack his arm, was so strong.

"You don't have to answer it that way."

"I'm not one to be outdone at your own game." The challenge sparked in his eyes. "While neither are in my wheelhouse, there's something to be said for Superman's raven locks and spit-curl." She near snorted a laugh into her wine glass.

"I am not dying my hair for you."

"So long as you don't expect me to show up wearing a cape and cowl."

"Deal."

But eventually the wine ran out and that was a natural, if unwelcome, stopping place. She took the glasses to the kitchen and he donned his coat, as though everything about tonight had been routine. Turning back to him, walking him to the front door, she really wished that it was. Did she have anything to lose by telling him? She swallowed a fortifying breath, gazing up to meet those eyes.

"You should drop by again sometime. I'd really like that." A flash of hopeful interest sparked in his gaze as he nodded slowly.

"I'll do that. Thank you, again, Celia. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Lucas." She closed the door in his wake, sliding the deadbolt in place.

Was she certifiably mental? Casually, flirtatiously sipping wine in her flat with a stranger – a bloody MI-5 spook – who broke into her home and was probably the target of several other spy organizations? She shook her head, pushing away from the door, wondering just what would come from tonight. Did he really want to see her again? And, if so, how could she tell anyone that she was seeing a spook?

As she trudged back to the kitchen, she scolded herself for getting ahead of herself. He probably couldn't even do the dating and relationship thing with the nature of his work. But he was so handsome, though…it would be too much of a shame if he really was off-limits. She fetched a glass of water, her eyes darting to her neglected phone. Taking a drink, she reached for it, watching the flashing notification light. Probably just a work email that would effectively ruin her good mood. Her brow furrowed to realize it was a text message.

 _Thanks again for the wine._

She stared dumfounded at the text, suddenly glancing around, puzzled. How did he…? She hadn't given him her number. Was it written down somewhere visible? She continued to glance around, but eventually looking back to the text, a small, excited smile started to grow on her face.

An MI-5 spook, indeed.


	3. Italian Toast

**Still rolling right along. Though, Lucas & Celia completely ran away with this chapter.  
**

 **Couple more quick notes:**

 **1\. Windark is named after the Windscale Piles in the UK. The Unit 1 Fire of 1957 is a fascinating read.**

 **2.** _Italics Text_ = text messages from Lucas

 **3\. Bold Text = text messages from Celia**

 **Shout-outs to isismak, Sirenfish and Eggwhisker - thank you for the kind words!**

 **Rating T: Language, sexually suggestive situations**

 **Chapter 3: Italian Toast**

"Ugh," the groan sounded over the low cubicle wall, "is it too early to start drinking yet? Just leave now and head straight for the pub?" Celia huffed a closed-mouth laugh at Vicky's words, looking over to see her staring at her computer screen in disgust.

"What's happened now?"

"I just got the test reports for the reactor backup heat removal pumps," Vicky shook her head dejectedly. "The vibration readings for the bravo pump are way off the scale. Too high for approval. The Control Room has given an eight-hour window to complete an evaluation before they start shutting down the reactor."

"Oh, shit," Celia agreed, casting her friend a sympathetic, supportive gaze, "if you need to pull in Jonathan to help meet the deadline, don't hesitate to call him. Matthew lets him abuse his part-time status too much."

"No," Vicky grumbled, heaving a sigh, "eight hours should be enough time. I just have too many other things to do – I did not account for this evaluation hijacking my day."

"Can't be helped," Celia shook her head, equal parts sad and annoyed, "if they can't give us equipment that works, we'll continue to run it into the ground and replace it at the eleventh hour when the regulators threaten to shut us down." Vicky snorted a dark amused laugh.

"Like your system replacement project? If that's what I have to go through to see these pumps replaced, I think I'd rather just keep writing emergency evaluations." Celia shared a small laugh and a sad smile. There was just a little bit too much truth in Vicky's words.

"I don't blame you. I keep telling myself that eventually these construction guys have to get it right. Eventually, they'll run out of mistakes to make. But it is not this day…." An almost wistful smile came over Vicky's face.

"If only it was Aragorn leading us into glorious battle to save this plant…I'd be much more inclined to follow his orders."

"Only if that let you into his bedroom." Vicky sputtered is disbelief.

"Of course. No shame in admitting that." Celia turned back to her computer monitor, shaking her head. She didn't really want to return to reviewing this calculation, but it needed to be done. The results, so far, weren't encouraging. The flashing notification light on her phone out of the corner of her eye stole her attention and she reached for it, if only to avoid the calculation for another few seconds.

 _French or Italian?_

She couldn't help the big, warm smile that grew on her face as she read the three words in the text message. It had been almost three weeks since she last saw Lucas. They had traded a few messages, always promising, but they hadn't been able to work out meeting up again. There always seemed to be something going on for one of them, but each message brought a delightful twinge of hopeful anticipation.

 **Italian**

She set her phone down, attempting to go back to the calculation at hand. But she barely lasted a minute before she had to pick up her phone again, disappointed to see there was nothing. It felt like an eternity until the notification light flashed again.

 _Mia Bella tonight?_

Her breath caught in her chest, her heart aflutter. Was it really going to work this time? There was nothing immediately pressing with the project today, no late afternoon meetings. She typed out her response without another thought.

 **Sounds lovely**

She couldn't help her beaming smile as she stared down at her phone, suddenly more excited for her day to end.

 _Pick you up at 19:00. Looking forward to it_

 **Sounds good. Me too!**

She hit send, instantly wondering if the exclamation point was too much. Heaven forbid she come across as too eager and scare him away. It would only give away just how long it had been since she last had a proper date.

"Must be good news?" She started at Vicky's interested voice, an embarrassed flush coloring her cheeks as she looked up.

"Um, yeah…," she waved her phone dismissively, "I have a dinner date tonight." Her smile turned to a sheepish grin on the admission.

"A date?" Vicky's face lit with intrigued excitement and disbelief. "Who is he? You haven't even said that you had a prospect, let alone were actually dating someone!"

"Well, we're not actually dating…or not really yet, at least. Tonight is our first, I suppose."

"Well, come on already, who is he?" Celia dropped her gaze from Vicky's, suddenly wondering just how much she was allowed to say about him.

"He's, um….He's in stocks and trades. He spends his days in cutthroat negotiations and deals," Vicky's face wrinkled with disgust as she continued, "it sounds almost as bad as dealing with the mess around here somedays."

"Ugh, a business finance major," Vicky shook her head in disapproval, "I had hoped you would do better. He better be gorgeous to make up for it." Celia huffed a laugh, glaring up at Vicky playfully.

"Oh, don't worry – he is," the blush on her cheeks deepened, "but it's still early. And for now… maybe that's why we get along—both of our jobs are demanding."

"Gee, dinner sounds like it'll be a real uplifting occasion," Vicky shook her head, a distant look of jealously and resignation settling on her face. "I may be stuck here with my evaluation, but I'm damn well going to live vicariously through you. I want full details tomorrow."

xxx

Her doorbell rang at 7:01 pm. After googling the restaurant for the dress code, she answered it wearing dark skinny jeans, a loose fitting green blouse, and ankle boots. The slate blue collar of his button-down shirt that peeked out from beneath his black overcoat complimented his eyes so well as he offered a small smile in greeting. After a quick grab of her coat and locking the door, they set off towards the nearest underground station.

"So, a good day at the office?" She asked as they walked in the cool evening air.

"Good enough." His tone was distantly preoccupied and she cast a curious glance over to him.

"Well, that's good enough. You seem…I don't know. Worried, almost."

"It's been quiet in the last few days," he simply said, "it's either something we've missed, or it's the calm before a storm." Frustration tightened the lines of his face and she was struck with the urge to do something to help soothe it away. Did he really take his job to heart so much? How refreshing.

"Am I supposed to know?" She had to ask. "About what you do?" A conflicted light entered his eyes as he looked over to her and at the traffic before crossing the street.

"For your own safety, probably not. But it's a little late for that now." An almost wry smile lifted the corner of his lips. "I know you spoke with Harry and Ros that night at the hospital." She nodded, recalling the conversation, the sight of him laid out so still, the distant beeping of machines.

"I think they were just trying to make sure I wasn't the one who shot you."

"You were never under suspicion for that."

"Do you remember much about that night?" They started on the stairs down to the station.

"Vaguely. Shortly after it happened, I couldn't keep up the foot chase and looked for somewhere. I tried your neighbors' place first, actually, but the lock held fast. But when I came to your front door and found it unlocked, it was the best option."

"Dammit," she scoffed, swiping her pass and following him through the turnstiles, catching up with him to resume the conversation. "I was wondering if I had really left the front door unlocked."

"You might want to work on that."

"I know, I know." Her cheeks tinged with pink at his teasing smirk with a serious edge.

"You were brave, though, to enter your unlocked place unarmed. I'm glad it wasn't someone intent on hurting you."

"Unarmed…I was ready to swing my backpack so hard at anyone who came at me. And it's heavy." Amusement flashed across his face as the train arrived.

"That wouldn't do much against a bullet."

"I didn't say it was necessarily a good plan. Or a successful plan." She conceded with a half-embarrassed smile.

"Then just take the compliment." Her blush grew over a flattered smile as they boarded.

"Fine. Thank you."

The rest of their journey continued in relative easy silence, passing only a couple of stations before exiting. Mia Bella was on the far end of the block with a simple sign and low lights shining out onto the sidewalk. The waiter took his name for the reservation and showed them to a small table a good distance back from the pianist who filled the restaurant with soft, jazzy strains. The exposed brick walls and minimalist modern furniture, all lit with soft candle glow, were most inviting.

"Live music," she commented with a smile as she shrugged out of her coat, sitting down, "that's a nice touch."

"Does that win me points?" There was something so innocent and endearing on his question. She couldn't help but smile. This was just her kind of place and he showing himself to be just her kind of man. It should probably scare her, but looking at him lit with the warm glow, she was ready to fall head over heels.

"You're off to an excellent start. You don't need to worry about this." She turned from him to their menus, looking over the choices.

"Sounds like you haven't been here before." He half-asked, glancing up from his menu, watching her studying hers.

"No, I haven't. How about you?" He shook his head in an almost dismissive gesture.

"Me, neither. A colleague recommended it."

"Well, if the menu tastes as good as it sounds, then major kudos to your colleague." Making her selection, she folded her food menu and reached for the wine list, scanning the bottles and vintages.

"Good evening, signore and signora." The waiter's voice drew both their attention upwards. "I see that you are already perusing the wine menu. Would you care to make a selection, signore?"

"I will defer selection to my lady." Something in the way 'my lady' rolled off his tongue sent an unbidden wave of heat through her as she flipped back a page, going with her gut instinct.

"You're too kind," she flashed a look at Lucas before glancing up at the waiter, "we'll do a bottle of item 162, the Chianti."

"Ah, an excellent choice, signora. Please take your time with the main menu and I will return shortly." They both offered up a round of thanks as the waiter moved away.

"You didn't have to let me select the wine, you know." She shook her head in mild embarrassment as his gaze remained steady.

"Why not? We've already established my knowledge on wine is limited. If you're worried for my delicate masculine sensibilities in public, then we're just getting started." She guffawed an unbidden, amused laugh, her eyes widening in playful surprise.

"Oh, is that how this night is going to go?" It was equal parts a playful challenge and probing question.

"I'm not here tonight to impress the wait staff with my ability to command the table. I'm here to share a table with you." She struggled to find words, the seriousness of his answer taking her by surprise. She only knew that a mile-wide smile of giddiness was threatening to stretch across her face if she wasn't careful.

"I – thank you…. I don't know what else to say to that." She shook her head before turning back to her menu. "What are you looking at for dinner?"

He started to answer, but the waiter arrived with the bottle of wine and two glasses. In short order, both glasses were poured and orders were taken; pasta pescatore for her, and lasagna al forno for him. She raised her glass for some wine, inwardly proud of her selection. It would go well with bold tomato sauces.

"Well you know what I do for a living, broadly speaking," he started, leaning his forearms on the table, "but what about you? I recall you mentioned construction accidents last time we met…"

"Yes, unfortunately," she nodded, leaning forward to match his pose, her fingers trailing the stem of her wine glass. "Though, I almost figured that you would have looked me up by now."

"I know Harry and Ros have seen your background, but I haven't had a reason to look you up. I'd rather just ask."

"I appreciate that." She couldn't help but be a little impressed, trying to trample the cautionary voice that warned he could just be an expert liar. "I work at Windark Nuclear Power Station, in their project engineering group. We oversee the capital build projects, mostly upgrades and replacements of equipment that has outlived its design life. Like my current project," she drew a deep breath, trying to not let her frustration with it show through, "replacing over five kilometers of one meter diameter buried piping for the cooling water system. The firm that's been hired to design and do the construction, I swear, has no clue how to actually do work in a nuclear facility." Traces of surprise mixed with interest filled his eyes as she continued to talk. It was a heady combination – the man had such powerful eyes. "We're eight months in, with at least another ten to go. And that's only with current schedule delays. The weather hasn't been doing us any favors, either. I'm hopeful progress will pick up once we focus on piping inside the buildings."

"Inside the buildings? At one meter diameter, you say?" She nodded, lifting her wine glass. "After replacing five kilometers of the stuff underground?" She laughed with another nod around her drink of wine. "That's a lot…and sounds quite daunting."

"The plant officials have been terribly nervous about this project from the start and they're still watching it like a hawk."

"I can see why. Governorship of a nuclear facility is not something to be taken lightly."

"No," she agreed, "especially not today's world, with all the physical and cyber attacks that are all too prolific. I probably don't even have to tell that to you, though." She shook her head, almost sadly. "But for almost everyone else – it surprises them to hear the security measures that are part of my everyday job. Metal detectors, explosive detectors. I know I've signed a form somewhere giving the security force permission to shoot me if I do something stupid." He chuckled a low sound. "I can't imagine what it's like for you, though. Being on the frontlines and seeing it all, as it unfolds. I know we can't talk about details…but the job you do is truly to be commended. It's all too easy to criticize from the warm, safe comfort of our homes and offices – but how many times over have you sacrificed to preserve that warm, safe comfort." It wasn't really something she expected an answer to and, fortunately, he didn't look like he was going to try. "If I'm going too far, please stop me and I'll go back to asking 'winter or summer' type questions – but, have you ever thought of getting out?" A haunting memory darkened his face, his gaze sliding away from hers down to his wineglass.

"There have been times," he started slowly, his voice tinged with distant pain, "when giving it up would have been the easiest way. But when I think about it now – I don't regret where I am. And maybe someday I'll outlive my usefulness, but there's just too much in this world to walk away from right now." Silence fell over the table as she tried to find something to say. But all she could manage was a gentle nod and a soft smile laced with respect. She couldn't help but admire a man of his conviction. At least she knew where he stood – he wouldn't leave his job over a relationship. Maybe with her demanding career, that just might work. "Same question back to you," he started, looking up at her with a curious air, "have you considered getting out of your current job? If I'm thinking right, Windark isn't exactly in the city."

"I never envisioned it being permanent. It was just supposed to be a quick way to get experience, some field exposure. But, god, it's been going on thirteen years now." She licked her lips uncertainly, a small, embarrassed smile quirking her lips. "I'd always thought I would leave it one day – cut ties when I met the right guy and wanted to start a family. But what I didn't plan for, ironically, was that the nature of the job would prevent me from finding the right guy…so, I'm still there."

The waiter returned with food before he could speak. She didn't realize she was so hungry until the rich, spicy aromas filled the air and they reached for their forks. With a meticulous motion, he cut a small corner off his lasagna and took the first bite. A look akin to euphoria washed over his face, his eyes closing as he pulled the fork back from his lips. She felt privileged to be sitting across him – it felt so intimate, watching him get lost in the flavor of his food.

"Good, I take it?" She asked, his eyes opening as if suddenly remembering where he was.

"It's wonderful." There was no hint of doubt in his voice. "It's been a very long time since I last had lasagna."

"Sounds like it's a personal favorite." He nodded in response around another bite, reaching for his napkin to dab at the corner of his mouth.

"It is," a reserved, resigned smile came to his face as he looked up to her, "my ex-wife was a very good cook and she made it fairly often. But to be fair, I loved lasagna long before I loved her." His admission caught her off-guard. She would never have guessed that he was previously married. It didn't seem to fit him, somehow, with his job and all. "What I just said wasn't an accident – stop overanalyzing it, you engineer. I want you to know that I was previously married." She felt her cheeks redden and she raised her napkin to her lips, just to have something to do. The admission was so surprising, so soon.

"I appreciate you telling me. Sorry for…my blank reaction. It just took me by surprise, is all. But not in a bad way. It's…refreshing to know that you're the marrying type." Her smile filled out, warm and genuine. "My last relationship...the guy. Well, he wasn't." She took another bite.

"He wasn't…the marrying type?" Lucas confirmed before taking a bite, watching her sip her wine and return to her plate.

"Yes, he wasn't the marrying type. He wasn't my type – it was just not a good fit. And that was two and a half years ago." Her cheeks flushed with further embarrassment to say it aloud. "That wasn't a mistake, either. I want you to know – in case you haven't figured it out already – that it's been two and a half years since I last did this, so please forgive me if I don't…remember all the steps in this dance." Something visible relaxed in his shoulders as he reached for his wine, an almost unsure smile gracing his face.

"I'm hardly one to judge. Due to…extenuating circumstances, it has been well over eight years since I last participated in the dance, as you called it." His face hardened in serious resolve. "My job is demanding. I cannot always guarantee that I will be around. There are times when communication blackout is essential to success. Other days, I go to work and don't come home for days at a time without any advance warning. It takes a toll and carries a high price." At first she wasn't sure, but now she knew. This was him laying his cards on the table. Laying out what it would mean to be involved with him. She licked her lips and swallowed, trying to come up with the words.

"I can't pretend to know what's that like, so I won't." She shook her head, not wanting to dwell on the dark implications of his words that she remembered all too well could be reality. "But I did first meet you bleeding near to death on my kitchen floor, and I'm still here. Invited you back in, and agreed to meet you for dinner. That has to count for something so far, right?" She offered a small shrug, glancing back to her mostly empty plate, deciding she was full and instead reaching for her wine. "Besides, you're talking to a nuclear plant worker. My standard shift is a 10-hr day, and that's if nothing goes wrong. And while no one's firing actual bullets at me and my cell phone is with me sixty percent of the time, I do know a thing or two about being unavailable and not around to make those plans we agreed to." Her lips quirked in something of an accepting, hopeful smile. "So, don't be so quick to chase me away just yet if this is something you want. Because this is something I want. Let's see where it goes from here." His lips quirked with a slightly mischievous and almost happy edge as he inclined his wine glass towards her.

"To where we'll go." She met his eyes on his soft words, and swore that she really could lose herself in that arresting, glacial gaze.

"To where we'll go." Her wine glass met his with a gentle clink that was filled with promise. "So, I have to ask," she started as she lowered the wine glass from her lips, a playful curiosity lighting in her eyes, "since it's such a personal favorite – do you remember your first lasagna?"

The rest of the wine disappeared over amusing, affectionate conversation and the bill was settled. He offered to pay and she didn't fight him. It was a sweet gesture and she wasn't above a little old-fashioned chivalry. The night air carried a dampness that spoke to approaching rain as they left the restaurant, walking back to the tube station.

"I'm sure you'll know the answer for me, but I don't know about you." She cast him a glance in the passing street light. "Literature or maths?" She caught the curl of a sure smile on his face.

"Literature. No question."

"So you're one of those, yeah?" She teased good-naturedly.

"Proud of it – 'literature always anticipates life. It does not copy it, but moulds it to its purpose' _._ Oscar Wilde. _"_

"Is that so? Well, the upward buoyant force exerted on an object in a fluid is equal to the weight of the fluid that the object displaced and acts at the center of mass of the displaced fluid. Archimedes." He sent her a playfully disgusted glance in the light of the tube station as they descended the stairs.

"Keep that maths to yourself." She laughed softy, following him onto the waiting train.

"Countryside or cityside?"

"Cityside," the playful look dulled in eyes as they sat on an empty bench, "I grew up in the country, so I've seen enough of it."

"Really?"

"Cumbria." Surprise continued to eat at the edge of her smile.

"I would never have guessed. Is that what drove your love of books? Some form of escape?"

"It was the only traveling we could afford."

"That's a beautiful way to look at it."

"Didn't think so when I was thirteen." She matched his small laugh. "What of you? City or country?"

"I'd have to say country – I grew up in the city, so I love all the green and open spaces." She gave her head a quick, mock-disparaging shake. "Not sure how we'll ever take a holiday together."

"Not much time for that, anyway. Though, I'm sure we could make something work." The train lurched to a stop and they rose to exit. "Car or motorbike?"

"I've got to go with car—only because!" She made a point to emphasize her last words over his scoff. "Only because I've never ridden a motorbike before. I'm not opposed, but cars are all I know."

"We'll have to work on that."

"I can guess your answer is motorbike?"

"Absolutely." She shook her head with a playful laugh as they reached the top of the stairs, starting down the street. Her fingers brushed his as they walked – she wasn't entirely sure who had stepped closer – but her heart leapt in her chest when his hand curled around hers. Somehow, it seemed almost too cute for him – holding hands. But it felt so right that it didn't matter. She could feel his eyes on her and she couldn't stop her carefree smile. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"I was just…," she took a breath before continuing, "I was just thinking that I had a really nice time with you tonight. We've covered a lot of ground, but it's been good. And, despite everything you said, it's been easy."

"It won't always be." He reminded her, something wary coloring his voice.

"Doesn't mean that I want to give up trying when we're only getting started." She wanted to kiss him, to prove it to him, to know what his lips tasted like. Was it too soon? Would he balk at her if she asked him to stay the night? This was only their first real date, after all. But she wanted…oh, how she wanted. She sighed lightly, disappointed that they had already reached her front door. "Thank you again for dinner, and for walking me back."

"You're welcome," his eyes softened with a hopeful air, "I look forward to more nights like tonight."

"Me, too." She squeezed his hand in hers. "I…I almost don't want you to leave tonight." She bit her lip nervously, hoping she wasn't jumping the gun. A flash of desire sparked in his crystalline eyes as he stepped in closer to her and she caught a subtle scent of muted woodsy spice.

"I don't think that would be very wise," his voice was a low velvety whisper, ghosting across her cheek as he leaned in closer, "because when I do stay the night, I intend to have you in bed as long as possible, and we both have to work early tomorrow." She near groaned in frustration, a bolt of heat coursing through her at the implication.

"You insufferable tease."

"You can always touch yourself, imaging it's me tonight." She gripped his hand tighter, growing more eager by the word to just pull him inside.

"You're giving me permission?"

"I'm giving you something to do tonight." Her head fell forward, breathing him in, desperate to just keep falling forward into him. They hadn't even kissed and she was already dizzily spun up.

"You wicked, wicked…someday, you will get this back." She raised her head, turning in their close proximity to meet his eyes, dark with want. She was sure her eyes mirrored a similar hunger. It would be so easy now…so easy to lean forward, feel his lips on hers. But they just stayed still, just taking each other in.

"Do your worst." He stepped back with a daring smirk, raising their conjoined hands. His lips were surprisingly soft against the back of her knuckles before he released the handhold. "Goodnight, Celia."


	4. Missed Opportunity

**Thanks for the feedback, Eggwhisker! I'm glad that you're continuing to enjoy. Forward march!**

 _Italics text = texts from Lucas_

 **Bold text = texts from Celia  
**

 **Rating M: Sexual Situations, Language  
**

 **Chapter 4: Missed Opportunity**

 **You missed out last night**

 _Was it good?_

 **Good enough, without you**

 _We'll have to work on that_

 **Can't wait. Free Saturday afternoon? There's a Tate Modern exhibit I want to see**

 _On shift Saturday. Next week dinner & Tate sometime?_

 **Sounds great. Let me know what works**

 **Shit, just found out I'm rolling to nightshift the rest of this week. Raincheck**

 _Wow. Just for the week?_

 **For now. Not entirely uncommon, but doesn't make it suck any less**

 _Just trying to be proactive and keep things on schedule?_

 **Trying is the operative word**

 _I'll bring you tea some night_

 **I'd like that**

 _Will you still be around in 20?_

 **Sorry, already left. Goodnight xx**

 _Good morning x_

 **Well if you want lunch with a zombie, today's my day off to roll back**

 _Fish and chips are an excellent cure for zombie-ism_

 **Oh, fuck yes. Man after my own heart**

 _Northeast corner of Westminster Bridge, noon_

 **See you then**

 _It was good to see you today_

 **You, too. Why are you still awake?**

 _Long night_

 **I'm sorry**

 _Me too_

 **I'd come over and give you a hug if it weren't so late**

 _That's a nice thought to fall asleep to. Goodnight_

 **Sleep tight xx**

 _Try for the Tate on Saturday?_

 **I went already, sorry. I'm all for seeing you, though**

 _How about a movie instead?_

 **If you don't mind me feeling you up in the dark**

 _I give as good as I get_

 **I'm counting on it**

 **Just let me know when**

 **Did I lose you?**

 **Hope you're safe**

 _Safe_

 **Thanks. I'm glad**

 _Up for a pint?_

 **Where?**

 _I'm at Leicester Square station  
_

 **Give me 20 minutes**

 **Thank you for the headache this morning**

 _I think you needed those drinks as badly as I did_

 **I'm not used to drinking ales**

 _You were cute, though. Made me want to kiss you until the flush in your cheeks deepened for other reasons_

 **Fuck, you should have**

 _Maybe_

 **Not one for PDA?**

 _Too public_

 **Shame. I desperately wanted to learn what that ale tasted like on your tongue**

 _Minx_

 **You're one to talk**

 _When we're alone_

 **Tonight?**

 _Soon_

 _Didn't we talk about a movie date once?_

 **We did. Do you have a night in mind?**

 _Tomorrow. A ~21:00 showing on Friday? Still leaves plenty of time after_

 **I like the way you think. You have Saturday off?**

 _Yes_

 **It's a date, mister**

 _I'll come by at 20:30_

 **Lovely**

 **Look forward to seeing you soon**

 **Still on for tonight?**

8:43 pm and he hadn't arrived yet. Nor responded to her text messages. It seemed unlikely that even if he were to arrive now that they would be able to make the cinema on time.

She fought with herself not to worry. She could hear his voice all too clearly from dinner, when he had laid out exactly what being with him could mean. Not being able to keep planned dates. Disappearing without a word. A week or so ago, he had stopped responding to text messages for a few days, but they didn't have any firm plans and didn't really trade messages all that regularly anyway.

But what if it was more than that this time? What if he was dead somewhere? Or captured? Or bleeding out in someone else's kitchen? There were few scenarios she could conjure that were actually a good reason why he was late. Everything else just rotted her stomach.

At 9:01 pm, she changed into her lounge pants, cami and university sweatshirt, retreating to the living room and blindly surfing the tele for something distracting. The questions were endless and the strong amount of concern was surprising. Had she really fallen so much in such a short amount of time?

She didn't last long before she had to open a bottle of wine, bringing it and a glass with her to the living room. There wasn't anything overly interesting on the tele, but she tried her hardest to focus on it as the wine started to disappear. If this was what the nights of silence and disappearance felt like, she would have to come up with some better way to deal with it. She just didn't expect it to happen so fast, just like this.

11:23 pm and she still sat on the couch trying to drown out the worrying of her mind. The wine had created a nice fuzz and she was thinking about packing it in for bed soon. Sleep depriving herself wouldn't do Lucas any good, wherever he was. She chanced an errant glance at her phone, catching the flash of the notification light. Her heart caught in her throat as she saw the sender, relief flooding through her.

 _Still awake?_

She didn't even hesitate.

 **Yes. You're welcome to still come by**

 **Please**

She bit her lip, her fingers eager to type more. To tell him how much she wanted to see him. To implore him to come over. Yes, it sounded incredibly needy, but she didn't care. He could have been dead in some back alleyway and she wasn't ready to say goodbye.

 _I'll be over in 15_

It was the longest 15 minutes of her life by the time the doorbell rang. But the instant she opened it to see him standing there, the knots in her stomach unclenched and she breathed an unbidden sigh of relief.

"Hey, you." The words left her on a shaky breath as she resisted everything within her to grab him in a crushing hug. Guilt hung in his eyes, giving off a sheepish air, as he stood with his hands tucked in his jeans' pockets, the rest of him looking unflappable as ever.

"Hi – I apologize for missing our movie date tonight, but it couldn't be avoided." He stepped inside, shrugging out of his coat as she closed and locked the door.

"I won't lie and say I wasn't worried," she started, following him into the living room. "But you told me that there would be nights like this. So, you have nothing to apologize for. The last thing I am is angry or disappointed."

"That's rather generous of you," he came to sit on the couch next to her, "not everyone would be so understanding."

"Well, that's their problem, then," she couldn't take her eyes off him, drinking him in, reveling in the fact that he was well and whole and here, "you are all I have been able to think about since you were supposed to come over." She swore she saw the faintest shade of pink flash on his cheeks, but he was good at schooling at his reactions. It was probably a necessity for his job, but she wished that he would relax around her. Maybe it was too soon.

"I'm flattered…embarrassed, actually," his lips quirked in an uncharacteristically adorable smile, "it's been a long time since someone cared about my wellbeing so much. I'm…not used to it."

"Then you're long overdue." She couldn't stand just looking at him anymore. Her gaze settled to the line of his lips in an unmistakable broadcast. The air between them thickened as she licked her lips. "You better be here to stay—"

"I am." His voice was a low rumble, hunger raw at the edges.

"Good." A fire lit in her belly as she leaned into him, catching his scent from the day – barely-there aftershave, roast coffee and something musty. It was a heady combination, dizzying her senses. His lips touched hers with steady conviction, coaxing a sigh from her at the sweet relief of contact.

Her touch was pure tonic. His body was wound so tight and here she was, willingly letting him kiss her, inviting him to touch her. He teased her bottom lip, enticing her to open. Willingly, she followed his lead, keening high in her throat at the hot slide of his tongue. The rest of her body was screaming for his touch and she inched closer to him on the couch, dying to know if the rest of him was just as warm and sure as his kiss.

Lost in the taste of each other, his hand settled to her hip, his thumb rubbing circles against the sharp bone. Skin…that was what they needed. She all but whimpered when his mischievous thumb slipped beneath her sweatshirt and cami, stroking a simple pattern against her skin.

"God, Lucas…." She sighed through the kiss, her breathing heavy and thick. "I want you so damn much." He surged his lips against hers, his arms coming to wrap around her tight, drawing her in. She lost her tongue to the touch of his, any and all words forgotten. Held in his strong embrace, she could only fall with him as he reclined back against the couch cushions. She shifted against him, slowly sliding her body along his longer one, flushing with arousal to feel the groan that rumbled through him as he held her on top of him.

She could get lost in his kisses, in the smooth slide of his lips on hers, in the heat of him. Her fingers carded through his raven hair, loving the strength of his arms and hands as they ran down her sides, teasing the waistband of her pants along her skin. She whimpered as his hips rolled up into hers, the hard outline of his desire prominent against her.

She smiled against his lips, tilting her head to nuzzle his pointed nose, the promise in the slow, thrusting contact of their hips undeniable. Her fingers slid to the buttons on his dress shirt between them, deftly pulling them free, revealing the gray undershirt beneath. His lips returned to hers, already red and a little swollen from the rasp of his stubble, as she pulled the shirts free from his jeans. He nipped her playfully, watching her struggle to inch the dress shirt up with his back against the couch. A frustrated little noise left her, rewarded when he bent at the waist to ease the shirt's passage over his shoulders, baring the pale skin of his biceps and forearms. She dipped her head back to brush a quick kiss before glancing down to his undershirt clad torso and exposed arms. He heard her gasp of surprise, watching a smile curl her lips.

"Why am I not surprised you have tattoos, you bad boy." Her fingers fell first to the black inked strap on his right forearm, turning it to expose the chain running up the inside. A dark feeling of dread – some shame, even – welled in the pit of his stomach, spreading through his body like ice water.

"They're not what you think." He simply stated, the gravity of his voice taking her completely by surprise. Her eyes returned to his, searching for something, anything…but damn his trained countenance.

"They're not…." She struggled to understand as her eyes dropped to the undershirt, suddenly wishing it wasn't there. At length, she turned to his left arm, drawn to the black writing disappearing up under the left sleeve. She studied the letters, her brow furrowing. "Not English. It looks…I'm not sure."

"Russian." He finished for her, eyes locked on the ceiling, bracing himself.

"Russian?" She raised her head, looking him squarely in his crystalline eyes. The hunger had faded, replaced with something much more haunting mixed with trepidation. Her mind started reeling, trying to work through any and all possible combinations why his tattoos in Russian might cause him alarm right now. Was he a Russian spy? A double-agent? Somehow, that didn't seem likely. But…what was it he'd said? About extenuating circumstances…? She took in both the tattoos that she could see, wondering if he had more. All at once, images from the movie 'Eastern Promises' flashed through her mind. Her eyes widened as realization slowly dawned, concern permeating her gaze. "Were…," she started nervously, "were you imprisoned?"

"For eight years, in Russia." His voice was deep and dark, belying not even a fraction of the pain that he had experienced. Suddenly Ros' words from the hospital flared to life in her head – _'He has known little else in the last eight years'_ – she swallowed hard.

"If I had known…I wouldn't have…." Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment and she couldn't help but look at the black ink on his skin. "I wouldn't have tried to spin them…god, somehow that seems so insulting now. I'm sorry…so sorry." She dropped her head to his chest, driven by an urge to be close to him, to just lie here with him, listening to his heart beat. She couldn't image what all he had suffered….and to think, he hadn't shown an obvious sign of such a past.

"I don't want, or need, your pity." A bitter edge soured his words as he nearly resisted the urge to pry her off of him. She titled her head against him to meet his gaze, taken aback at the sternness of his stare. He froze, confused at the determination in the lines of her face.

"I'm not sorry out of pity," she simply said, a faint hint of offense coloring her words, "I'm sorry that I tried to cheapen them." He sighed in annoyance, in resignation. This was never going to work. Who was he trying to fool.

"You can't want me. I shouldn't have stayed that night." He lifted a hand from around her, bringing it to scrub tiredly across his face, wondering why he had even tried. She stared quizzically at him, catching his hand and pulling it down to her, brushing her lips across his knuckles.

"Because you were in prison for eight years means you shouldn't have a girlfriend?" Her words were so simple. "You already told me that it had been over eight years since you last tried anything like a relationship." He continued to stare at the ceiling, not wanting to hear her. Afraid to believe her, that such a thing could be successfully possible for him again.

"I'm too fucked up for anything so…normal." She laughed softly against him, snuggling more into him, doing her best to wrap her arms around him.

"I think everyone's a little fucked up about something. That's the modern age for you." Yes, it was cynical, but it was what she knew to be true. "This just happens to be yours. And while, I grant you, it's more extreme than your average, run of the mill fucked-up-ness – I told you once already, don't chase me away if you don't want to." The plain honesty in her eyes was almost painful. "It takes a lot for me to give up something that I like and want. And I like and want you, you dark, handsome, fucked up man." A light laugh rumbled in his chest in spite of himself, in spite of the incredulity of the situation. She sighed, snuggling into the soft fabric of his undershirt as his arm came back around her, just holding her to him. "Stay with me tonight, please? We can leave our clothes on, just…don't leave me yet. Please."

She didn't figure he would stay unless they slept together first, and sure enough, she could see the hesitation in his eyes before he actually accepted. And, yes, her blood still coursed hotly through her, eager for satisfaction, but she really did mean what she'd said. The sexual frustration was worth it just to keep him close. There wasn't anything else she wanted. Well, not really, at least.

But when he pulled the undershirt away to reveal more black swirls of ink, and when he shimmied his jeans off slim hips to reveal more toned muscles, her resolve started to crumble. He graciously accepted a spare toothbrush, walking cautiously around her as though waiting for her to change her mind. But now he rested, convincingly relaxed with half of his chest bared by the bedsheets, waiting for her to finish up. How had she ever gotten so lucky?

She flicked off the bathroom light, rubbing in the last of her hand lotion before pulling the covers back. The cool, soft cotton of the sheets was welcome against her heated skin as she reached for the light, plunging them into the blues and blacks of midnight. She could barely make his profile out against the darkness as she settled against the pillow, facing him. Her heart pounded at the staggering intimacy of just laying with him like this. Her body twitched against the sheets, burning to close the distance between them, her core aching for his attention. He shifted his head on the pillow, edging closer to her. She reciprocated his movement, feeling his steady breath ghost across her cheek. Her hand moved, driven only to touch him, running around the curve of his shoulder, tracing the muscles there. Their lips met in an unspoken tidal wave of release. He drank in her languorous sigh as her mouth opened to his. A desperation sparked in their touch as he licked into her mouth, deepening the contact. Fuck, this was what she had been so desperate for. She moaned against him, her legs twining with his, her arms urging him closer.

He moved seamlessly, pushing her back against the mattress as he rolled on top of her, a low growl in his throat to nestle himself in the hot apex of her legs. A whimper trembled her lips as he pressed his hips further into hers, such torturously thin layers of clothing between them. He nipped her jaw, drowning in her smell and heat, wanting to abandon himself to this woman. God, it had been so long, and her fingers skimming down his back, cupping his backside to grind him further into her were almost too much. Her incessant fingers settled to the waistband of his briefs, prying the fabric down over his hipbones. He wasted no time with her cami and shorts, desperate to have her bare underneath him.

His fingers found her soaking folds, plunging in, gratified with her moaning gasp, the bucking of her hips to match his movements.

"So wet…" He purred, kissing down the valley of her breasts before taking a nipple in his mouth. She writhed against him, pinned by the motions of his fingers and tongue.

"I've been wet for you since our first glass of wine." He groaned, low and serrated, driven only to bury himself within her. He pulled his fingers free, her groan of protest in his ear before he lined up, brushing against her entrance. "Please…" She whispered, pushing against him, disappointed to feel him pull back.

"I need to get—"

"I'm covered; IUD. Unless you're—"

"No…I'm good." His bloodwork had returned blissfully negative after his release to freedom. He was grateful for it then, but this moment was beyond compare. She craned her neck, pressing her lips to his, drinking him in, devouring him, reassuring him, carding her hands through his hair. He met little resistance as he pushed into her, his breath stolen as the searing heat engulfed him. They groaned in unison as he seated himself fully within her, each enjoying the onslaught of sensation, the promise of release to come. A wet, sloppy kiss was the best they could manage as he started the slow drag of his hips, ratcheting the tension higher. She whimpered and gasped, her heart threatening to explode as he moved, so slow, so deliberately.

"Please, just…fuck me. Take me slow later." Her pleaded words were hot against his lips before he rushed against her, his lips crushing, his hips snapping in sharp movements. She caught a strangled cry in her throat as she gripped him tighter.

"Let me hear you," his voice was rough, commanding, "I want to hear how good you feel." His hips slammed forward and the wanton moan that tore from her was almost his undoing. He was close, too close, too soon. "Fuck, you're perfect." He rasped through low grunts as he pushed himself against her, driven by the telltale clenching of her walls. Canting his hips, he worked a hand between them, rubbing and tweaking until she tightened impossibly, his vision going white. She cried out as orgasm took her, her body convulsing around him, into him as he let himself go, groaning his release. Sated, lazy kisses drifted between their ragged breaths, sweat slicked skin cooling as their world consisted only of each other in this moment. She nuzzled his nose, just breathing, relishing him atop her and surrounding her.

The strong urge to whisper 'I love you' was almost overwhelming.


	5. Water Books

**Rollin', rockin' and rollin'. Thanks for reaching out mysterious Guest – I'm glad you're enjoying the style. I had quite a bit of fun writing the text exchanges from last chapter.**

 **Disclaimer: Anything you recognize below, I don't own. Literature is my playground here. Also, there's my attempt at Russian below courtesy of my research. I do hope it's semi accurate – my aim is not to offend.**

 **Rating T: Language, sexually suggestive situations**

 **Chapter 5: Water Books**

 _2.5 months later_

"Blech." She grimaced through the kiss, her nose wrinkling in distaste. "You positively reek of cigarettes. Everywhere." His clothes. His lips. His breath.

"Trust me, I feel pretty scuzzy at the moment." She glared incredulously at him as she turned back around after closing the door.

"And you let me kiss you anyway? So kind of you." She shook her head, watching him toe off his shoes and slide out of his coat, reaching for the coat closet door. "No, no," she quickly scolded, stepping forward, "I'll take that. And you go for a shower, right now. Before you touch anything else." She edged in front of him to fish out a spare hanger from the coat closet, feeling him step up behind her, her back loose against his chest.

"So demanding tonight," he nosed along her neck, invading her senses with more of the offensive smell, "I like where this is going."

"Ilch, not until you're clean." She stepped away from him, her lips lifting in amused annoyance to see a hunger simmering in his gaze. "Go on." She huffed a laugh as he reluctantly turned from her, heading down the hallway. "Where were you anyway, to come here smelling like this?"

"Seedy strip clubs." She gaped is sheer surprise, looking up after him only to find that he had already disappeared into her bedroom. Was he trying to be funny? He did have a pretty dry and oddly-serious sense of humor, but that….surely, that wasn't a joke.

She looked to his coat still in her hand, scrunching her face in disgust at the smell. It was only a few short steps to the back door to leave his coat hanging from a plant hook to air out in the cool night air. Now to run damage control on his clothes in the bathroom. A week or so ago, she had repeated the offer and he accepted to leave some spare clothes and necessities at her place. It made her heart flutter at the budding seriousness of it all. This was real. This was something they were actually doing.

She grabbed a spare rubbish bag from the kitchen on her way to the bathroom, hearing the water running. Steam was already starting to fog up the edges of the mirror as she reached for his abandoned pile of smoke ridden clothes.

"You owe me a story when you're done." She called out over the water and ventilation fan. "You don't just get to hang out in seedy strip clubs in defense of the crown without one."

"Trust me," he called back, obscured by the shower curtain, "it's not as glamorous as you might think. Low level grunts bide their time in places like the ones I scouted today. The higher end places don't leave such a lasting impression. There's nothing James Bond about it at all." She shook her head tying off the bag for him to take with him in the morning.

"I'm not sure that helps your case…knowing the differences between low end and high end places. One might think you frequent these places on your own."

"Only when defense of the crown requires it. I wouldn't gamble with something so good, otherwise." A flattered smile twitched her lips as she reached for the bathroom door to head back to the living room.

"Flattery won't get you everywhere, but it'll get you close. I'll see you when you're finished." She pulled the door, padding back to the couch and the book she'd been in the middle of before his arrival. _The Crucible_. She'd heard a lot about it over the years. American colonists and witchcraft in a placed called Salem, Massachusetts. She was only twenty or so pages from the end and she just had to know how it ended – what with both Proctor and Goody Proctor arrested on suspicions of witchcraft. Their tale was so sad. The guilt of the husband who cheated. The guilt of the wife who blamed herself for her husband cheating. And now with child. Celia just had to finish the last pages before he arrived.

But no such luck. Not enough time had passed when she felt the couch cushions dip as he sat beside her, bringing the pleasant smell of soap with him.

"What are you reading?" His voice was soft, almost respectful, and carried a newfound minty freshness.

" _The Crucible_. I've never read it before. Heard about it – I've seen it advertised on marquees for an upcoming show. Thought I'd give it a go." She turned to look at him – his skin flushed a little pink from the heat of the shower, his ebony hair glistening with moisture and his eyes, so blue and clear. How was he so effortlessly handsome?

"And how are you finding it?" He asked, his intense eyes focused on her.

"I'm really enjoying it – almost finished with it. I'd hoped I could knock it out before you finished up."

"How much do you have left?"

"Only…erm, 10 pages." She flipped through the last few pages to demonstrate. "Would you find it terribly rude if I ignored you for a few more minutes?" He chuckled, low and soft, scooting around on the couch to gather up the couple of throw pillows, stacking them on one end.

"Yes, terribly." He moved to recline with his back against the pile of pillows, holding a hand out for her to join him. A smile lit her face as she joined him in shuffling around, coming to rest in the crook of his legs, her back against his chest. "This way, we can both read."

"You've read it?"

"A couple of times, actually." His chest rumbled with the low spoken words, sending shivers down her spine. It was a delicious feeling. "And since it's a play, there're parts for us to each read aloud." She sighed contentedly, immediately agreeable.

 _Proctor: The child?_

 _Elizabeth: It grows_

 _Proctor: There is no word of the boys?_

 _Elizabeth: They're well. Rebecca's Samuel keeps them._

 _Proctor: You have not seen them?_

 _Elizabeth: I have not._

 _Proctor: You are a – marvel, Elizabeth_

…

 _Hale: Woman, plead with him! Woman! It is pride, it is vanity. Be his helper! What profit him to bleed? Shall the dust praise him? Shall the worms declare his truth? Go to him, take his shame away!_

 _Elizabeth: He have his goodness now. God forbid I take it from him!_

"How utterly tragic. And beautiful. And perfect." She leaned back against him as she spoke, closing the book with an almost wistful sigh. "She loved him, but she understood and wouldn't stop him. And him…he knew the price of his choices, and made the sacrifice to save his name, to save his soul." He bowed his head, running his nose along the column of her throat, his breath ghosting across her skin.

" _To be, or not to be- that is the question:_

 _Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer_

 _The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune_

 _Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,_

 _And by opposing end them_." The words rolled so naturally off his tongue, she could drown in his soft, melodic voice. Heart sparked in her blood, coursing through her. She didn't even know she had a literature kink.

"Mmm, not entirely similar, I'd say – Hamlet was talking about suicide."

"Each man had to make a decision that he could reconcile with but they both faced the same moral paralysis. Hamlet just talks about it more than Proctor does." She leaned into his nuzzling, snuggling further into his embrace, the heat of his body.

"You're missing the complete presence of Elizabeth in Proctor's decision," she started again, "in the guilt and love present there."

" _Love seeketh not itself to please._

 _Nor for itself hath any care;_

 _But for another gives its ease._

 _And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."_ She squirmed against him, losing herself further to the sound of his voice.

"Yes…," she near moaned the word with a languorous smile, choosing not to comment on his love of Blake, "love is indeed powerful."

"Then the truth for Proctor is this," his arms wrapped around her torso, holding her close, " _above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. И, не имея никакого уважения, он перестает любить._ " A gentle moan left her as he finished in Russian, his voice a deep rumble.

"Mmm, what was the last part? And I know you didn't just come up with that. Who'd you steal it from?" She asked, her breath catching as he mouthed at her skin with featherlight touches.

"Dostoevsky." She hummed her approval, a smile twitching his lips, inhaling her scent. "I'm not sure I should translate. Я думаю тебе это нравится больше." He nipped lightly, feeling her arch into him with a sigh.

"It's fucking sexy as hell to hear you talk like that," he rewarded her with another teasing nibble, feeling her hips rock against his. He widened the position of his legs to better let her settle against him, fueling his growing arousal. "But I still want to know how it ends. And then…no more English."

" _And having no respect he ceases to love_. Подходящая истина для Проктора." He nuzzled along her jawline, leaving a trail of delicate touches to mouth at her earlobe. "Ты такая красивая. Мне так хорошо с тобою." Her right hand raised to curl around the back of his neck and he allowed her to pull him forward and down, lips slotting effortlessly together.

Sure enough, he didn't speak English for the next several hours.

xxx

 _3.75 months later_

What a fucking disaster. Everything had been going so smoothly, so she supposed she should have been more prepared for the bottom to drop out. But god dammit, this was too much.

And Lucas, bless him, had still let her come over with Chinese takeout in tow.

"Those incompetent fucks," she fumed, wielding her chopsticks with quick, jerky movements, "they've had the specifications for months – well over a year, actually. We've discussed the country of origin requirements for the pipe material countless times. And still….still! They manage to get it wrong." She shook her head around a bite of lo mein as Lucas continued to silently listen. "It's cost the project a 10-week delay minimum, straight up. Everyone is seeing red over this."

"Is there talk of firing the contractor this time? Or too far committed?" Talking about her work was always a safer topic for them.

"My vice president has been ready to sack them for months, but the plant operations manager reminds him that we're already in too deep to cut ties." She took another bite. "I say to hell with them. Cut the bastards loose because this kind of shit in the eleventh hour is beyond ridiculous."

"Just sweet talk him," he suggested, a mischievous twinkle in his sharp eyes, "I'm sure it'll work." She guffawed a weak laugh.

"And should I wear a low-cut blouse on that day, also? A miniskirt, too perhaps? Sadly, I think that might actually work. Management can be such a boy's club sometimes. Finished?" She motioned to the empty carton in front of him with her chopsticks as she finished up her last bite.

"Yes, though I was going to get up for a drink."

"Capital idea. A double for me, maybe a triple depending what's on the menu." He laughed softly as she gathered up the empty cartons and they both rose from the couch. She liked coming over to his place. It didn't happen often, but the fuss-free, industrial style suited him – and the skylight over his bed was quite inviting.

"Do you have a preference on drink?" He asked.

"No, just make it strong." She dropped the cartons in the rubbish bin, moving for the cabinet of cups and walking to the sink.

"A dangerous prospect for a worknight?" He neared the ice dispensing fridge with two highballs in hand.

"Not at all – need something to block the horrid events of today for another ten hours." She sighed, taking another drink. "Maybe you could arrange something to take them out. Something small to frame them, discredit them." She topped off her glass before turning back towards him, the whirring of the ice dispenser between them.

"It doesn't work like that." He sent a loosely scolding glance her way as he finished filling the last glass.

"Oh, but couldn't it just this once?" She pleaded teasingly, taking a few more steps towards him.

"How about never?" He tilted his head, looking down at his nose at her. A smirk lurked on his lips but his eyes clearly warned her to stop pushing. She sighed in frustrated defeat.

"You're no fun." She dipped her fingers into her glass of water, collecting a scoopful and teasingly flinging it at his face.

All at once, he froze and she remembered too late. His steps stuttered, eyes blinking in rapid succession as he drew a panicked, gasping breath. The highball in his right hand fell from a slackened grip, shattering as ice and glass shards spread all over the floor.

"Oh, shit." The curse left her instantly as he staggered against the counter, managing to set the other glass down. He was shaking his head in rapid, jerky movements as if trying to physically shake the memories, the flashbacks from his mind. "Shit, I'm so sorry…I wasn't thinking….." Guilt overwhelmed her as she reached for a dish towel, hearing him draw shallow, short breaths. He was still braced against the counter, eyes screwed shut as he anxiously wiped at his face. He had told her he had issues with water, particularly water on his face, but she had never seen him react before. They had always been so careful in the shower and at the bathroom sink.

"Lucas. Lucas, you're alright. You're safe." He hadn't divulged the details of what exactly happened to cause his issues, but she guessed it had something to do with him time in prison. Worry gnawed at her as he continued not to speak, so she did the only thing she could think to do. She crouched down, taking a knee amongst the shattered glass, looking at up him, submissive, non-threatening and continued to speak in soft, soothing tones. "Lucas…you're safe. You're with Celia…you're safe."

At length, his eyes opened, blinking in rapid movements as he took in his surroundings. His breathing started to even out as he ran a hand over his face in a more controlled movement. She didn't dare say anything or move just yet. She had royally fucked up and didn't want to risk anything further. Unbidden tears welled in her eyes as she watched him continue to come back to himself. What had she just done?

"Lucas…." She looked at him, a broken question in her wet eyes. He focused on her at last, wrenching a hard sallow.

"It's…," he huffed a breath laced with anger, frustration – maybe disappointment. She couldn't be sure. "I'm alright." He pushed off the counter, keeping a hand braced as he took a few tentative steps.

"No, you're not."

"You're right. But for the purposes of this discussion, I'm fine." He bit the words out, his voice tight and tense. She wanted to reach out to him, to do something, anything. The hard line of his shoulders told her that any sort of physical touch would most likely be unwelcome. Instead, she looked to the glass shards on the floor, starting to gather them into the towel to take the edge off her guilt-ridden anxiety.

"I'm so very sorry…the last thing I wanted to do was cause you such pain just because I was frustrated. You didn't deserve that." She blinked a tear that fell to the floor as she continued to pick up errant shards, sniffling quietly. She didn't want him to know that she was crying. Selfishly crying because she did a selfishly stupid thing. What a horrible way to treat someone she cared about so much.

"Leave the glass. For now. Please." She couldn't bring herself to look at him, his voice inscrutable as she stopped. Was this it? Was he going to ask her to leave and just not come back? Part of her couldn't say she blamed him. But had they really come so far just for it to end like this? With another quiet sniffle, she gathered the edges of the towel together as she rose to stand. With a nervous swallow, she set the towel full of glass on the counter, looking over to him at last.

He was leaning against the back of the couch now, hands braced as he perched, his eyes stormy and face impassive. Her heart broke to look at him, another tear rolling unbidden down her cheek. She raised a hand, quickly brushing it away as she rounded the corner of the counter towards him in the living room.

"I can get my things." She walked past him to where her coat and purse were draped over a kitchen chair. If this was really the end, she could come back for the rest of her things another time.

"Why would you do that?" Hope sparked in her chest on his words, soft and unsure. She turned back to him, equally unsure.

"How could you possibly want me to stay after what I just did?" She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. "I've never unintentionally done something so cruel, so thoughtless..." He drew a deep breath, releasing it in an almost annoyed sigh as he pushed off from the back of the couch. Disbelief clouded her face as he approached, arms opening to wrap around her in a solid hug. She clung to him in return, burying her face in his shoulder.

"I won't lie," he rumbled, his voice drained, "this is not ok - probably the farthest thing from it. But we'll make it." He sighed, his body starting to uncoil in her embrace. "We'll make it." She nodded weakly against him, tears of relief, guilt and love soaking into his shirt as they held each other.

If he let her, she would spend the rest of her life trying to make tonight up to him.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Translations:

 _И, не имея никакого уважения, он перестает любить_ **: And having no respect he ceases to love**

Я думаю тебе это нравится больше **: I think you like this better**

Подходящая истина для Проктора **: A fitting truth for Proctor**

Ты такая красивая **: You are so beautiful**

Мне так хорошо с тобою **: I feel so good when I'm with you**


	6. Love Cancellation

**Forward march! Two chapters tonight...and the reviews are so lovely - I really enjoy and appreciate the feedback.**

 **isismak - I'm glad you're enjoying it so much! I hope you continue to find these chapters just as wonderful.**

 **Eggwhisker - Thank you! I wanted to play with the evolution of what a relationship with him might be like without bogging the story down in too much everyday life tedium.**

 **Nietzsche - Welcome back! And yes - there are so many nods to literature for Lucas in the show, it was a natural fit. Dusty Springfield's "Son Of A Preacher Man" helped bring that scene to life ("the only boy who could ever teach me was the son of a preacher man"). Have to say, I certainly wouldn't mind him teaching me a thing or two about literature...**

 **Chapter Notes:  
 _Bold Italics text_ ** = memory **  
Bold text** = text from Celia **  
** _Italics text_ = texts from Lucas

 **Rating M: Language, Sexual situations**

 **Chapter 6: Love Cancellation**

5 months  


1:34 am.

She rolled over, huffing against the cool material of her pillowcase. Her eyes looked to the empty pillow beside her before she forced them closed.

 **"** _ **Oh, Lucas…." A tear fell down her cheek as he pushed into her in a perfect, slow slide. His breath caught in his throat as he kissed her tear away, holding her hand tighter, squeezing their interlaced fingers.** _

Her heart ached at the memory. It just wasn't right when he wasn't at her place…or when she wasn't at his place. And tonight, he was missing. That was probably why she couldn't sleep. As much as she craved to just have him beside her, to hear his breathing and soothe his probable nightmare, she also knew that she probably shouldn't. She always prided herself on her independence – a woman engineer who possessed all the confidence her position demanded. Yet here she was, head over heels for this man, wanting nothing more than to hide away from the world in his arms every night. But maybe that was the difference – she wanted him; she didn't need him.

How she longed to tell him just that. That she wanted to come home to him every night, to have him always in her life. That she loved him. She sighed against the pillow, snuggling closer in the sheet and thermal blanket, imagining he was beside her.

She rolled back over, adjusting the pillow before letting her head drop back to rest and her eyes graze the clock.

1:48 am. Would this night ever end?

The moonlight was brilliant through the faraway panel of his skylight. It drowned out the surrounding starlight, but he didn't really care. Sleep wasn't easy for him to come by, anyway. A nagging sensation in the pit of his stomach forced him to admit the truth hidden in that lie. He blew a slow sigh through his nose as he shifted his legs against the deep blue sheets, bringing his right arm to fold underneath the pillow, supporting his head as he gazed at the ceiling.

It was indeed easier to sleep with Celia close than when he was alone. The stiffness in his chest always abated in her presence, and he found himself genuinely able to relax, to let his defenses down. It had been many years, nearly a decade, since he could indulge that luxury. And he found it—and her—addicting.

2:01 am.

This night was wasted. He was just lying there, waiting for his alarm, the dawn, going to work and finding Celia. When they were together, he often found himself too content to ever want the dawn to come. He snapped his eyes closed, suddenly all too familiar with the longing that consumed him. He loved her. Somehow, somewhere, he'd let himself fall for her. And the longer he laid there, and the more he dwelled on the realization, he knew he couldn't bring himself to regret it. His time with Elizabeta had passed, and this was where he found himself. And in his line of work, who could really say how long he would be here. Was there anything to lose? Or just everything to gain?

A flash of light from his phone lit the room for an instant before plunging it right back into darkness. He reached for it on instinct because his work never stopped, really. A lazy smile grew as he saw the contact name.

 **You're probably asleep, but I can't stop thinking about you**

 _Not asleep. Thinking of you, too_

 **Penny for your thoughts?**

Was there any reason he shouldn't be honest?

 _I love you_

Tears welled in her eyes as she read the message, suddenly wanting nothing more than to drive over and fall into his arms. She beamed at her phone, the overwhelming happiness consuming her.

 **I love you, too. Too late for me to come over?**

A sleepy half grin graced his face. Maybe if it were midnight he'd send a different response.

 _Yes. Let's try for tonight_

 **I'll be waiting. Love you**

 _Love you too_

Her head sunk further into the pillow, finding peace finally settle over her mind.

All it took was three little words…who knew.

xxx

6.5 months  


They had agreed not to spend Friday night together. It would only add to the anticipation of their first weekend trip together. She was embarrassed to admit how giddy she was about it. It was so normal, so traditional. A romantic getaway – and one that he had planned, no less. She hadn't been able to stop smiling about it for days and Vicky had been equally unable to hide her disgust.

Of course, with only having approximately 30 hours to be away, they weren't doing anything extravagant. But they had found this cute, little place in the countryside just a couple hours' drive outside of London. It would be just the two of them, away from the pressures and norms of everyday life. The idea was heavenly.

When he showed up at 8:59 am, she wasn't sure what she had expected – him driving a car and a couple hours' drive together was about it, though. But she opened her door to see him standing there with a sleek helmet and gorgeous leather jacket, all for her, and she couldn't believe it. She had inelegantly stumbled around words, embarrassed to accept his gifts. But he quickly explained that they weren't gifts, but necessities. That's when she caught a glance over his shoulder at the sporty, striking bike parked at the kerb.

No wonder he had told her to pack light.

"You're not going to change your mind, are you?" There was something daring, almost challenging on his voice. It was matched by the slight twitch of his lips and the spark in his eyes.

"No…not at all," she felt her cheeks flush in continued embarrassment, "you know I don't have experience with motorbikes."

"Well, fortunately for us, I have a thing for bikes. And you're not driving."

She couldn't help but smile back at him, shaking her head. Somehow, it just fit for her rural, literature lover to harbor such a passion. It was like catching a glimpse of what remained of the teenage boy within him that refused to grow up. And just when she was wondering how much more she could really love him.

She slipped into the jacket as he carried her bag out, not surprised that it fit like a glove. And the leather was so buttery smooth. It was lightly padded, but still flattered her figure. She glanced to him, pulling the zipper up on her jacket, watching him adjust the storage compartment on the bike. It should be a crime for him to look so good – fitted, dark wash jeans and an equally well-fitting leather jacket did wonderful things for his lean body. He was already sporting a touch of helmet hair, with some of the ends tufted in loose, wild strands, but it only made her want to run her fingers through it and snog him senseless. Soon enough.

Hefting her helmet in hand, she locked the door behind her.

"Not much fun to be had riding in the city," he started as she approached, "but once we're out in the country, you'll see." Excitement and anticipation laced his words though he was too well practiced at keeping himself guarded to let it otherwise show. Maybe someday she would get to see a full, eye-wrinkling smile from him, and hear full-out passion in his voice.

"Will I?" She teased back, already finding it a little warm in the heavy leather jacket. "What do I need to do."

"To start, helmet on," he reached for his, "then, hold on."

"To you?"

"You won't find another option." She met his wicked little smirk. "You'll feel me lean into the turns. Just follow my lead until you get the feel of it."

"You're confident that I will?"

"You will." They slid into their helmets and he swung a leg over the bike. With a surprisingly nervous breath, she climbed on behind him, situating her feet. The bike fired under his touch, the engine humming with power and promise. In a gentle motion, he eased away from the kerb, her hands in a loose hold on his waist as they snaked through city streets.

True enough, she started to pick up the rhythm of his movements. Of leaning into the curves, of balancing when the bike was gliding to a stop. Gradually they worked their way, with traffic blissfully light, until the city faded away and the colors of summer in the country gleamed in the morning sun.

That's when he brings the bike to life.

She feels the acceleration glide through her as he lets go on the throttle and the bike sings, gaining in speed on the open road. The smile that overtakes her face under the helmet is brilliant. She doesn't know how fast they're going and she doesn't care. The feeling is incredible. It's so smooth – she'd almost swear she's flying.

He handles the bike like an extension of hid body as he shifts and propels them forward. It's so fluid, effortless. The road is just curvy enough and she leans with him into and out of the turns, the rush of adrenaline powerful and potent as she clings tight to him. He wasn't kidding when he said he had a thing for bikes. This is what freedom, abandonment felt like. She knew there had to be something for him. Something for him to let loose, to let go the stress of everything. And boy, oh boy, did he do it well. The rush heats her blood, arousing and intoxicating. It awakens something so physical within her, her mind fading to the background and existing just in the flow.

Disappointment was inevitable as he rounded the last bend through the trees and eased the bike to a slower speed on approach to the small town. She didn't even realize she was breathing so hard, her eyes blown wide from the ride. All too soon, they came to a stop at the little inn. On shaky legs, she climbed off, shrugging off her helmet as she watched him do the same. His hair was slightly damp at the edges, matted and mussed, while his eyes blazed bright with exhilaration and heat. It was a delicious look on him. His whole persona seemed lighter as they took their bags form the bike's compartment and headed inside. She wouldn't dare say carefree because he simply carried too much history, but she had never seen him so loose. Especially in public.

"Good morning, dears." A kindly lady with salt and pepper hair, glasses perched low on her nose smiled as they approached.

"Good morning," he said, his voice unusually pleasant, "we're checking in. Last name North. Lucas and Celia." She couldn't keep her smile from widening.

"Ah yes, Mr. and Mrs. North, welcome." She smiled warmly, checking the name off her reservation book. "I have you in our east terrace room. It's right off the kitchen garden. The afternoon breeze picks up the smell of lavender and rosemary, and it's just lovely with the windows open."

"It sounds wonderful," Celia turned to him with a smile, "we'll have to do that. Thank you."

They finished up with the lady at the desk and walked up the gently creaking flight of stairs. There were only two rooms down this hallway – one on each side – and opened the door to the room in the east. The room was, indeed, quite lovely and the windows were already open, bringing the in the seasonal warmth. She closed the door behind them, standing against it, just watching him as he stopped at the foot of the bed, turning back towards her. Heat and want still coursed through her, high on the release of endorphins from the ride.

"Mr. & Mrs. North, huh?" She searched his face for any kind of guilt or embarrassment, not entirely surprised that she didn't find any.

"Less crossed-eyed looks from judgmental, conservative locals."

"Heaven forbid an unmarried woman spend the night with an unmarried man...how scandalous." A naughty smile teased her lips. "You can ask me again, now. If you like. I want to revise my answer." A confused curiosity sparked in his eyes. "Cars or motorbikes." She heard his amused chuckle as he set their bags on the bench at the end of the bed.

"Alright. Cars or motorbikes?"

"110% motorbikes," she gushed, "that ride was such a rush. How long has it been since you last rode?"

"God, too long…Ten, probably closer to fifteen years." Her brow furrowed on his words.

"That long? I assumed you would have last ridden closer to just before you were detained." He shook his head, unzipping his jacket a little, revealing a black v neck t-shirt beneath.

"No, my ex-wife never knew. It wasn't something she would have been agreeable with." She cocked her head on his words, a question forming on the tip of her tongue. She wasn't sure if she should ask it, though. "You look like you want to ask a question." She pursed her lips, trying to hide a guilty smile.

"Yes, but I don't…don't want to seem accusing." A serious curiosity tightened the line of his jaw as he tilted his head forward in interest.

"Well, now you have to ask." She shifted against the door, loosing a breath.

"Well, I hear things like that and have to wonder…did your ex-wife really know you at all?" She licked her lips, trying not to regret asking. A flash of distant sadness – maybe regret – passed over his face, but was gone just a quick.

"There was a lot about me that she didn't know. There was so much I wasn't allowed to tell her that it became easier to just not tell her anything. Unlike, with you…from day one, there's been nothing to hide. And that's almost worse in it's own way, but here we are."

"Here we are." She echoed quietly, a soft smile on her face. "Come here." He crossed the room in a few easy steps, stopping in front of her as she reached for his jacket. He fell easily into her, bending to meet her lips as she tipped her head up. The latent heat from the ride flared to life at his touch, her body buzzing. Her fingers toyed with his jacket zipper, easing it down and dancing back up the front of his chest. He groaned low as her tongue teased the line of his lips, delving in to taste. He leaned forward, connecting their hips as her arms snaked around his torso under his jacket. She moaned, high pitched and breathy, at the contact, his arousal heavy against her thigh.

"Do you know what that ride did to me…" She breathed the words against his earlobe, teasing it between her teeth. "You were so…in control, so powerful…." He chuckled deep in his throat, sliding a thigh between her legs.

"And you liked that?" He trailed his nose along her racing pulse, his breath hot against her skin. "Would you like me to play you like that? To work through every sweet spot on your body, pushing you to your senseless limits until you're screaming release at my touch deep inside you?" She slammed her lips into his, rutting against him, pulling at his shirt to get him closer.

"Oh fuck, yes." She spoke the words into his mouth, tearing a growl from him as she reached up under the hem of his shirt, raking her nails up his back.

"Later," he ground out, "I need to be inside you. Now."

xxx

7 months  


He still hadn't told her when his birthday was. She had asked on several occasions and he never really said why he wouldn't tell her. Maybe it held bad memories? Maybe it was classified?

 _ **"Well, then I'll just have to guess. How about this coming Friday – dinner at my place? I'll cook something nice."**_

 _ **"Celia…," he had actually seemed a little flustered by her insistence, "you really don't have to. It doesn't—."**_

 _ **"** **Shh, Lucas. Just, please let me do something nice for you."** _

She'd been to the market last night right after work and spent the rest of the night in the kitchen. Everything was washed, chopped and prepared. She hadn't told him what was on the menu but filet mignon with red wine mushroom sauce, risotto and asparagus should go over well. It was already mid-afternoon and she was excited for the day to end.

"Oh, that's bloody perfect." Vicky's voice didn't support the sentiment, even with a mouthful of ramen noodles. "I just got my quarterly training registration and it's the same day as my design review meeting."

"Oh no, that would be a nightmare to reschedule." Celia agreed, looking over the cubicle wall. "Can you shift your training – when do your qualifications expire?" Vicky slurped the tail end of a noodle, leaning back in her chair.

"Two weeks, I think. Not entirely sure." Celia chuckled softly, noticing the flashing notification light on her phone.

"You might want to check that – otherwise, with expired qualifications, your design review meeting won't happen anyway."

"Maybe I'll just not renew them at all…just let my quals expire and see how long it takes for someone to notice."

"Careful over there, rebel. You might just start a trend." They shared an amused smile as Celia reached for her phone. Her smile widened at the contact name, but her heart sank as she read the text.

 _Not tonight. Make it up to you_

She sighed in disappointment, typing out a response. Sure, it wasn't the first time he had canceled on her, but tonight…with the dinner they had talked about. This one hurt.

 **No need. Just save the world and come back to me**

"Oh no," Vicky's voice, distorted around another mouthful of ramen drew her attention back, "something's wrong. You've got that look and you're staring at your phone…"

"Yeah, it's just…" Celia shook her head absently. "I was planning to make this really nice dinner and—"

"Did your bloke ditch you again?" Vicky's eyes widened in offense as she wasted no time in trying to confirm her suspicions.

"It's his work, he…he gets wrapped up in these intense negotiations and there's no telling how long it'll take to end."

"You're still sure he's worth it?" Vicky asked with a raised brow and an edge of concern in her voice. "He bails on you so often…it doesn't seem right. Or good for you. Or fair."

"He's just committed to his job. It has nothing to do with me personally."

"And you're sure of that?"

"Vicky, please; he's not bailing on me for another woman." He couldn't be. "He told me right at the start what getting involved with him would mean – there are just days and times where he can't get away. I mean, just think," she looked to the ceiling with a quick shake of her head, trying to come up with something, "you…you wouldn't want the financial stability of our country and investment future to be threatened because he refuses to break a dinner engagement with me, right?" Vicky shook her head with something of an annoyed skepticism.

"Is he really so important? Come one…how can one man be so central to the greater financial good that keeping a simple dinner date would cause such a collapse? Have they never heard of a single point vulnerability before? What if – and God forbid – your bloke was hit by a truck?" Vicky stuffed a mouthful of pasta in her mouth, garbling her words. "Would it be a mad dash to the bank for my pathetic life's savings?"

"I don't know…," Celia could only offer a weak shake of her head and a small, uncertain smile, "he probably couldn't even tell me if I asked. I don't know a lot of details about what he does. Just that it's demanding and can be quite cutthroat." If only she could tell Vicky – or anyone, really – just how dangerous his daily job was. She was getting more accustomed to him breaking off their plans, but she still couldn't quash the worry that threatened to overtake her when there was silence for more than 24 hours. She couldn't deny that it hurt, and the more she loved him, the more real the fear that on any given day she could never see him again. Vicky shook her head, seemingly disgusted.

"Men and their secrets. All I'm saying is, you should have a bloke who puts your first – don't you deserve it? He better be worth it – for the suffering, or sadness, or whatever it is that's all over your face right now." At least she could give a voice to that feeling, a raw smile growing on her face.

"Yeah…to me, he's absolutely worth it."


	7. Sick Trouble

**Rating T: Language**

 **Chapter 7: Sick Trouble**

9.25 months

He felt like shit. But that was from the day of being in sub-freezing temperatures, tracking suspects through the back alleyways, rooftops and fire escapes. And probably his still-damp clothes. His skin stung, irritated from the whipping winter wind, and his joints were stiff from the cold. It had nothing to do with his raw throat or the congestion in his sinuses. Absolutely nothing.

He was a highly-trained operative, well-conditioned from eight years of living in squalor and pain. His body could adjust to anything, handle whatever was thrown at it. Yet here he was, lying to himself about a simple, fucking cold.

He sniffled miserably at his desk, his head pounding. His eyes drifted closed as he fought to focus his energy, to force himself to rise above the physical condition of his body. He had a lot of practice at that.

"You look like shit, Lucas." Ros' unsympathetic words told it like it was as he cracked his eyes to offer her a wry glare.

"Never one to spare a man's feelings, Ros."

"You should be used to it." A rare hint of kindness flashed across her strict countenance. "Go home, Lucas. Get some rest. I'm sure your engineer will do right by you." It was the first time anyone on the Grid had spoken to him about Celia, but he wasn't surprised she knew. Harry probably did, too. And if his relationship with her was unsanctioned, he would have known about it long before now.

"I'm sure she will." He couldn't think through the fog in his head to come up with any better response.

"Feel better. And stay away from the Grid tomorrow—if anyone falls ill, I'm holding you personally responsible."

Ok, so maybe the idea of a soft blanket and chicken noodle soup was more appealing than he would care to admit. A memory of Celia's smile and laughter floated through his muddled mind, cutting through his misery. But how could he be sick—his body had handled so much, there was no way he would be undone by a stupid cold. He just needed a distraction.

The trip to her place was soothing in its routine and familiarity, even in the softly falling snow. Surely, seeing her would snap him out of his tired, muddled mood.

Smoke curled from her chimney as he stopped in front of her place, his spirits already lifting. 9:02 pm. It would be just about right for her to be settling in with her nightcap of choice, perhaps with a book to enjoy, or her laptop to get a jumpstart on emails. A grin softened his face as the fresh snow crunched gently under his footfalls before he reached her awning, hefting his key.

 **"** _ **Here, take it," her smile was downright giddy as she pushed the metal key in his hand, "I hate thinking of you a visitor—you're welcome here any time. Please use it like it's yours."** _

It had been a long time since anyone had trusted him like that.

The interior heat hit him like a welcome wave of relief. Until that moment, he hadn't realized how cold he was. A fire crackled in the place, casting cozy shadows around her living room, reflecting off her face as she sat, curled up, on the couch. She seemed impossibly beautiful to his dry, tired eyes.

"Hey, you." Her voice was soft and welcoming, cutting through the gentle Christmas carols playing in the background. That's right…it was December…. Christmastime.

"Hello, yourself." His voice was an octave lower than normal, rough from a day of cold and coughing. Not that he was really sick, of course. He was just worn out from the exposure today. Though that didn't stop him from noticing the concerned wrinkle to her brow as she watched him shed his coat.

"Are you alright? You look like hell…." He chanced a glance in her entryway mirror, dismayed to find his physical appearance—the telltale pallor of his skin; the pronounced circles under his eyes; his nose and cheeks red from the cold weather—betrayed the surety of his mind.

"It was a long day. Chasing bad guys through the streets of London is an activity better suited for the warmer months." He sniffled on the end of his words, an unwanted cough rattling his throat in the aftermath. She rose from the couch as he fought to suppress his cough, hating his body for giving him away.

"I don't think that's the whole story." He couldn't escape her studying gaze, doing his best to ignore his body, but finding it unwilling to cooperate. His mind was starting to lose the fight, threatening to break in the inviting heat of her home, in the security of her presence. "I think you're sick." He sniffled again, offering a weak smile.

"I think you may be right." Her lips pursed in mock annoyance, shaking her head as though disappointed.

"Too tough to take care of yourself, are we?" She softly scolded, stepping forward to rise on tip-toes, placing a kiss to his wind burned cheek. "Go lay on the couch. I'm going to make you some hot tea."

"Celia," he hated the near pleading edge to his voice, "I didn't come here to be mothered. I can—"

"No," she agreed with a knowing smile, not letting him finish "you came here to feel better. So, let me do that. Now go—the couch is still waiting." She reached for his hand, giving it a quick squeeze as she turned towards the kitchen, dropping it at the last second. He couldn't help but smile after her, his love for her plain across his sharp features. Why this woman had ever welcomed him into her life was beyond him, but for the life of him, he wasn't stupid enough to let her go.

He popped the top couple of buttons of his dress shirt open, toeing off his shoes before padding across the carpet. His fingers made swift work of his belt, dropping it with a gentle clink on the coffee table before pulling his shirttail free. The couch cushions were smooth and yielding as he stretched his long form out against them, settling his head against a velvet throw pillow, breathing in deep as he let his eyes drift closed. The pounding in his head was worse as air barely worked its way through his sinuses. Now that he let himself think about it, he wanted to rip his throat out; swallowing was just that uncomfortable.

Here he was—Lucas North: sick; taken down and out for the count by a simple, fucking cold.

"Don't pass out on me yet." He cracked an eye to watch her return, a travel mug complete with a straw in her hand. "You should drink this first. Raise your head, love." He rolled over onto a shoulder, raising his head as she lifted the throw pillow.

She dropped gingerly down beside him, resituating the pillow in her lap, coaxing his head back down.

"There," she smiled down at him, handing him the mug as he rested it against his chest, "that's much better." Her arm extended to pull the blanket off the back of the couch, clumsily draping it over him, trying not to disturb him.

"You're too good to me." He rumbled, his voice coarse. "This makes twice now you've helped me."

"I'm not sure you can count the first time," she dismissed casually, reaching to the end table for her snifter of bourbon, "I wouldn't let someone die in my kitchen. Too much mess." His lips curled in a weak smile, finding his body melting into the couch, into the surrounding heat. "You know, we're coming up close to a year of that night. The night we met."

"That's not the memory I want of our first meeting." He pursed his lips around the straw, drawing a tentative sip in fear of a scalding burn. The pleasant lemongrass, chamomile blend was perfect as he drew a deep drink, letting the warmth soak and soothe his raw throat. God, it was perfect; she was perfect.

"Afraid you don't have much choice on that one. But without that night, who's to say we would have ever met?" She took another sip, her gaze pensive. "The bullet that brought us together." Her free hand settled to his brow, gently carding through his raven hair as he took another sip of tea. "Not too hot, I hope?"

"No." He sleepily murmured, leaning into the caress of her fingers. "Thank you."

"I'm glad you came," she simply said, her voice soft as she continued her caressing touch, "I miss you more than I should when you're away." He swallowed another soothing mouthful of tea, letting his mind slip further away.

"We should fix that. Living together would be nice." She laughed softly, unable to stop the wide smile on her face.

"I think it would, too, but let's not make that decision tonight. When you're well - trust me, we will have this conversation again." Her heart swelled as she continued to look down at him, her man, her love, her future. "Go to sleep, love. I'm not going anywhere." It was easy to pull the mug from his loose grasp, watching him effortlessly drift off, peace softening the hard lines of his face.

She couldn't stop smiling – right here, right now, this was where she was supposed to be.

xxx

11 months

He couldn't make it tonight. The text had arrived before 9 am so whatever it was, it was big. She had tried not to linger on it too much. It was probably just another day to him. Foiling another terrorist plot. Stopping a bomber. Impersonating someone else to gain information. It all sounded exhausting and impossible.

She adjusted the bag with her few groceries on her shoulder as she crossed the street. If she had to do without him tonight, then she was going to make the best of it. Making macaroni and cheese, and watching Netflix on the couch all night seemed like the best way. Plus, a bottle of wine. An absent smile came to her face as she rounded the corner to her block. It made her almost wish he was going to be around tonight – she wondered how he would handle a marathon Netflix night.

The hairs on the back of her neck suddenly stood up. Footsteps were approaching all too rapidly.

"Don't scream." She tensed in startled, wide-eyed fear as something sharp and round pressed against her back, held by a taller man who flanked her left side, wrapping his free hand around her arm. She didn't dare make a sound, her breath racing as the man pulled her over closer to the kerb and a black SUV pulled up. "Get in." He pushed the gun farther into her spine as she numbly reached for the backseat door, fighting the well of panic as he all but pushed her in and climbed in after her.

There were two other men in the car, including the driver. The second man sat in the passenger seat, turning ever so slightly to cast her a snide glance. She fought to control her breathing, wrenching a hard swallow as her eyes fixed to the gun still trained on her, struggling to keep her wits. The SUV pulled away from the kerb as the man in the passenger seat held up a photo, handing it off to the man in the backseat with the gun.

"You know this man?" The man in the front seat asked with a thick Eastern European – Russian? Ukrainian? Moldovan? – accent as the picture was held up. Her heart broke as Lucas with his impassive eyes and stony face stared back at her.

"Yes." She answered softly, feeling tears well in her eyes as she bit her lip nervously.

"You fuck this man?" The man with the gun waved the picture in her face accusingly, as if already knowing her answer.

"Yes." She refused to let her tears fall as her voice cracked, her heart racing. The man turned the picture to glance at it, scowling before looking quizzically back at her.

"You're not stupid enough to love this man?" She looked away, her eyes falling closed, swallowing the lump in her throat, willing her eyes to dry.

"What do you want?" She mustered her best all-business voice, turning back to him with determination sparking in her eyes. "If you know who he is, then you know who I am." A sudden, cold chill shuddered down her spine as she realized it. They must want what she has. They wanted Windark. The man in the front seat turned back with a knowing glance.

"You have nuclear security clearance, yes?" Her face hardened, doing her best to muster a confident stare despite the nausea starting to rot in her stomach.

"You know I do." That was something she learned in training – never admit the truth of anything. Play to their knowledge, get them to admit their information. She had just always hoped she would need to use the active shooter event training. But as she wrung her hands nervously in her lap, she kept trying to recall the various pointers.

"Then you can help us," the man up front turned back casually towards the front, "we want the safeguards from the vaults. The site fence layouts, camera locations, observation posts. You can get these for me, no?"

"Not likely," she started, struggling to keep her voice even over the surging adrenaline, "there are an awful lot of guns between the main gate and the vault. If they knew what you were trying to do, no one would make it."

"Then they don't have to know." The man sighed a content, almost relaxed sound as the car rounded yet another corner. She had completely lost track of where they were. "Then we have a deal?"

"A deal?" She shook her head, unable to believe it. "No…no, I couldn't possibly—it would be impossible."

"Difficult, I grant. But if you say impossible…. Illya, зробити дзвінок." The man with the gun let the photo fall to seat between them and fished a phone from his pocket. Her face fell, drawing a gasped breath.

"What? What did you just say?" She forced the words out, looking panicked between Illya and the man upfront.

"You won't help us, so we have to kill your man. Silly of you not to think we wouldn't."

"But you can't…he's not done anything!"

"You know what he is, what he's done." It was stated so simply, such a matter of fact. Was that all this was? Some revenge plot against him using her? Anger reared its head through the fear and uncertainty.

"And I know what your people did to him." The man in the front seat chuckled, clearly amused.

"If you think that was us, then you really don't know anything." He laughed again and she wanted to slap the smile she can hear off his face. "But fortunately for you, we don't want you for what you know. We want you to get us the plans for Windark from the vaults." She sighed a deep breath, looking down to her lap with a shake of her head.

"You don't understand. I can't just walk out the main gate with those plans, even if I wanted to."

"Then Illya goes in with you. He'll get the plans out." Her head darted up, eyes wide with shock.

"He couldn't make it past the main gate." The man in the front seat exhaled an annoyed breath.

"If you thought this was a negotiation, you thought wrong. Illya only has to make the call if you refuse to cooperate." The man turned around with a stern glance. "Illya will get through the gate. You will take him to the vault and get him what he needs. Then, we leave you and your MI5 boy toy alone." A throbbing pain grew in the left side of her head as she listened. If there was a way out, she couldn't see it. Maybe Windark security forces will just shoot them both. More than likely she'll just be arrested for even trying to get him into the plant. But wouldn't that work just as well? She knew there was really no way for him to smuggle the plans and information out. So what would it hurt to let them try? If it was one less threat against Lucas, who risked his life everyday…wasn't it about time that someone did the same in return?

"Fine." She spoke at length, surprised at the firm tone in her voice as she glanced between the unknown man up front and Illya. "I can arrange escorted access. But if you want this to work, you had better deliver on his background because they will check before allowing him through the main gate. I want your assurance that if we fail before reaching the vault from poor planning on your part that Lucas will not be harmed." The man upfront sneered with something of an impressed air.

"You will find everything on our end ready to back your escorted access. Your man will not be harmed if you deliver. That is only assurance I will give."

"Fine." She screwed her eyes shut as she spoke, drawing a deep breath, hoping beyond hope. "Then, we have a deal."

"чудовий!...or how is you say….Cheers! Yes, that's it. A deal. Very good, very good." The man spoke more in his native language, Illya and the driver responding in short, obedient phases. It…it almost sounded like the Russian that she'd heard Luca speak, though, not quite. But she couldn't be sure. She needed to get out…she needed to…

"We'll contact you when we need you." Illya suddenly said in English, his voice not carrying a heavy Slavic accent. He pushed the phone in his hand towards her, dropping it in her lap. "Take this and keep it close." She felt the car gliding to a stop but couldn't take her eyes off Illya as he moved the gun. "And if you tell your man anything, or he interferes…just remember." He pointed the gun at the photo on the seat, pulling the trigger. She cried out in a startled scream as the seat jumped and the photo deformed, shot clean through. Her heart hammered and her head pounded in sheer terror. "Get out. Now." Illya nodded at the door next to her and she scrambled on panicked instinct, fumbling for her fingers to work the door handle.

She spilled out onto the street, her grocery bag clumsily getting in the way as she clambered out of the SUV. The door was barely closed before they went speeding off. She struggled to breathe, to process what just happened. She barely made it two steps before her knees gave out and she dropped ungracefully down to the sidewalk. Tears were streaming freely down her cheeks as she fought to reign in the sobs threatening to undo her. She wasn't even sure where she was…but then, she recognized the street, the buildings. Her place was just around the corner.

Her hands trembled as she held the offending black phone in her hand. What had she just agreed to? She couldn't get him in there. Could she? It was all too much. She just…she needed…god, she needed to see him. To dissolve into him. She had never been so frightened before. Choking back a sniffle, she dropped the phone and reached for her phone. Maybe things had changed. At least, just to hear his voice…

"Yes?" His voice is clipped, distracted.

"Do you…do you think I could see you tonight?" She tried to keep the catch out of her voice, forcing some semblance of normalcy as she fought the impulse to sob.

"Don't think so." She nodded even though he couldn't see, fighting her trembling lip. "Can it wait?"

"Yes." She nearly choked on the lie, hoping that she sounded convincing enough. She didn't want him to worry about her now. He needed to focus. "Love you."

"You too." The line went dead and she looked at her phone longingly. With nothing else to do, she shakingly found her feet, wiping tears from her face as she reshuffled the grocery bag.

What was she going to do now? And how long were they going to make her wait?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Translations:

зробити дзвінок: **Make the call**

чудовий: **Excellent**


	8. Guilty Parties

**Rolling on towards the end. Two chapters today. Thanks to all who are sticking with this!**

 **Rating M: Language, Sexual situations**

 **Chapter 8: Guilty Parties**

The Grid had kept him away from her longer than he liked. But the concern was eating away at him.

The distress in her voice had been plain as day when she called. Yes, they'd traded texts since then, but nothing to indicate her mood. She was trying to shield him from it, whatever it was. But he couldn't place it. Surely, it hadn't just been a rough day at the office. He knew her better than that.

It was a fine line that he tread – keeping her and his feelings for her separate from the domain of his occupation. But this…that tremor in her voice, the barely contained edge of fear she had tried so hard to hide was undeniable. Something had happened. And if something had happened – God forbid anything in his world should bleed over into what they shared. It was something he had always feared. And 48 hours later, it was time to do something about it.

Officially, he was off the clock. If something came up, he would have to stay and respond, but that wasn't the plan. Instead, he was searching phone records and history. He had never done this before – not with Elizabeta or anyone personal – but he needed to know.

He correlated her phone record to the log on his phone for when the call came through. 6:21 pm. The GPS location that accompanied it was easy enough to pull up on the map and with the right filter applied, he could see the location of all security cameras on the block. There was one, maybe, that looked like it could be in range. And, strange for his luck, it wasn't a closed circuit. The feed was all too easy to access, even for his paltry, dated skills.

It took a few minutes to locate the correct day and timeframe. But when he got there, his heart dropped to his stomach at what he saw. The angle wasn't good – he couldn't see her get out of the SUV, but he saw her once the SUV pulled away, watching her slump to the sidewalk. She was so visibly shaken and distraught. He couldn't even believe it was the same woman. Something burned and raged within him as he watched her hand visibly shaking while the holding the phone to her ear. What the hell had happened?

Had someone worked out what was between them? And what would be the endgame of that? Was someone planning to use her against him? Yes, she had nuclear secrets in her own right, but were they really that powerful? Maybe it wasn't too farfetched either way. But either way, the thought was sickening – they could both be used against each other for the benefit of the unknown third party in the SUV. The camera didn't pick up all of the vehicle's registration number, but he could make out most of it. Maybe the digits in question were 8's or B's? Could be a P or an R? Maybe a K? He would have to run some iterative checks to see if anything was a hit. It was all he could do.

It took him longer than he would like to find something of even remote interest. In the meantime, Ros had given him a passing glance; Jo had left with a kind farewell; and Harry was still warily watching over the world. No one asked what he was doing and that suited him fine. Questions would just slow him down. That was when his search turned up something that made him stop cold.

A Ukrainian syndicate connection with ties to the cell that Ros shut down two weeks ago.

He reached for his phone without thinking as his blood ran cold.

xxx

Two days. It had been two days of abject, consuming worry.

She'd been less than efficient and productive at work. Had anyone noticed? Maybe it didn't matter if she was indeed going to sneak a terrorist into the plant. The thought twisted her stomach in a knot. She had received a text with a name and a driver's license number. That was all she needed to file the escorted visitor paperwork with plant security. It was too easy. Was it possible that she – they – could pull this off? It seemed so unlikely, but everything was falling into place right now.

And that last text this afternoon. It was the most ominous text she had ever received.

 _Tomorrow. 7 am. Michael will pick you up. You talk, your man dies._

She hadn't sent any confirmatory response, her stomach still an upset tangle of knots. Tomorrow was it. The day she destroyed her career, and probably her life. It was subversion in every sense of the word and there was no way she would be allowed to keep her clearance in the wake of tomorrow. She struggled to watch her speed as she drove home. With her luck, a speeding ticket would be the perfect icing on the cake for today. But at least she wouldn't have to pay for the ticket if she was in jail…or dead.

The thought unsettled her stomach further. She just kept thinking about it over and over. That there wasn't any way for this plan to succeed. Sneaking documents out of the vault was impossible. Vault access was only granted with a security escort and every move would be closely watched. At any point in the yard, there would be a minimum of four lines of sight on them from guards with assault rifles. Assuming, of course, they could even clear the building before security took them out.

She gripped the steering wall tighter, biting her lip, her head falling as tears threatened. Her heart was breaking for—over—Lucas. She wasn't sure if she would get to see him tonight, his texts had been vague. But if not…he would never know and she would likely never see him again. Would it be worth it? If she sacrificed her life for him, couldn't some other terrorist or nationalist threat just kill him the next day? But how many times had he laid his life on the line for his job? What about the eight years he sacrificed for his countrymen? Did he have anyone willing to do the same for him?

That thought took her by surprise. Would anyone sacrifice for him? Did anyone else think his life was valuable enough to save? He probably didn't even think it was.

" _I'm too fucked up for anything…normal."_

Wasn't that just as much an acceptance of a life not worth saving, as well as a warning for her? She swallowed the bile rising in her throat, a steely determination seeping through her body. Yes, he would never know, and she would prove him wrong. His life was worth a damn and it was worth risking—losing, sacrificing—everything to save. After all that he had given and done for this country, it was about time that someone returned the favor.

She turned the car off at the kerb in front of her place, closing her eyes and tilting her head back against the headrest. Tomorrow was for him—because of him—she loved him and he deserved someone who was willing to sacrifice just as must as he was. It was just that simple. And most certainly, her companion, Illya-cum-Michael Bard would be taken down in the process.

The knots in her stomach had somewhat relaxed by the time she reached her front door, already planning to find her most expensive bottle of wine and drink until she passed out. She figured she might as well enjoy the last night of her current lifestyle.

Her eyes landed on his instantly as she closed the door behind her. He sat stiffly in a living room chair, all sharp angles of light and dark, his eyes icy, gaze molten. The picture of a man on a mission – the MI-5 operative.

"Who picked you up two days ago? Just before you last called me." His voice was pointed, leaving no room for question. She swallowed thickly, debating the wisdom of a lie, dying to ask just how he knew.

"A casual friend," she started, dropping her bag to the floor, stooping to remove her shoes, "she couldn't stay in the neighborhood for long, so we took a drive."

"A casual friend," he echoed, less than amused, "you called me not minutes after you returned. You tried to hide how distraught you were, but don't think I didn't know." A hint of softness laced his words despite his serious countenance.

"She's going through a divorce," she could credit her job for her ability to make up bullshit on the spot, "it upset me and I wanted to see you." She cast him a quick glance, trying to discern if she was convincing enough.

"Why are you lying to me?" His voice was cold, hurt seeping through his measured tones. "Celia…why can't you just tell me?" He rose, holding out a hand in pleading, in comfort as he approached. She forced herself to turn from him, finding her resolve weakening under his intensity.

"I did just tell you." She tried again, moving towards the kitchen, her determination weakening as he caught up to her, his hand circling her wrist. He drew her back to him, gently boxing her in against the wall, reading the conflict in her eyes, the truth threatening to break.

"What did they do to turn you against me?" His voice rumbled low in the space between them, brushing the tip of his nose against hers, his eyes imploring. "I know it was Ukrainian syndicate. I know they picked you up and dropped you off – and you…god, you could barely walk after. You know all the rest." She bit her lip, nodding slowly, reluctantly against him, wanting only to curl up in his body and disappear from the world. But she forced herself to raise her head and meet his gaze head on, her heart threatening to burst from her chest.

"I won't tell you." She forced her best confident, authoritative voice, watching the confusion, possibly even hurt crack his façade.

"I thought you trusted me."

"I do – I love you," the words rushed out on an imploring breath, "but they're watching me. And I don't trust them." A crack in her voice caught the last word as she continued to look up at him. Why did he have to look so good?

"What have they threatened you with….," his eyes searched hers, seeking the answer. She shook her head in a weak gesture as realization finally dawned across his face. "Me. They threatened you with my life." She couldn't bring herself to voice the response, watching him pull the answer out of her expression. "God, Celia, don't…let me help you. Please." His hold on her wrist tightened, his other hand raising to grip arm pleadingly.

"There's nothing. It—you sacrifice so much for so many, can someone not do the same for you?" Anger blazed in his eyes, his body stiffening with the tense emotion as he forced a hard shake of his head.

"No, someone cannot—you—should not." He commanded, rough and unforgiving. "It's not worth it. I'm not worth it. You have—"

"So much to live for?" She finished wryly, mockingly. He pushed her arms back against the wall, his mounting anger and frustration threatening to break to the surface. A bolt of heat sparked in her core at the expression of dominance. It probably shouldn't turn her on, now of all times, but there was nothing for it. All too well, she remembered the night she found him wearing a suit and wire-framed glasses and how he'd taken her hard and fast against the wall, his voice pitched deep in a Russian accent, filthy and commanding.

"Don't be so stupid. I won't let you." His voice held the barest thread of control, his eyes desperate, scrambling to find some way to reason with her. Did she not realize what he was? How did she possibly think that was worth sacrificing for? How could the restless nights of nightmares, the water induced episodes, the countless nights alone possibly be worth anything? "After all the things I've put you through…you should hate me." But all he saw in her eyes was acceptance and love and heartbreak. And, _fuck_ , there was desire. He breathed a curse as his body recognized it, responding to her close presence, to the smoldering in her eyes.

"I'm sorry." She simply said, drowning in the heat of his body, her legs twitching together.

"No, you're not." He crashed into her lips, nothing gentle in the kiss as her teeth scraped against his. She fought to push back against his control, struggling to free an arm from his grip, wanting to touch him. He held her fast against the wall, sliding his hand down her arm to grip her other wrist, bending both arms up and surging the rest of his body solidly against her. His attack of raw passion was overwhelming, her mind yielding to the needs of her body to have him, if only one more time.

His frustration, his love, his anger, his want consumed him as he marked her skin, drawing the sounds from her that he knew so well. Fuck, he had to have her. _Now_. He dropped one of her wrists, sliding down to her thigh, moving her leg around his waist, grinding against her. She cried out at the rough drag of denim on denim, the heat and friction increasing her want tenfold. She hitched the other leg around him, adjusting to let him support her fully, crushed between her man and the wall.

With a growl, he pushed off, turning towards the couch, forcing her back against the cushions as he pinned her with his weight. She welcomed him, impatiently clawing at his back through his shirt. His eyes blazed, dark and raw, as he drew away just long enough to tear her jeans down her hips, to rip open his belt and the catch of his jeans.

She cried out into his mouth as he drove himself inside her, her fingers clenched in a tight grip on his shoulders. He thrust into her repeatedly, mercilessly driven to feel her drawing him in deep to meet his end. Her teeth scraped his neck as she voiced her pleasure against his skin, urging him on, abandoning herself to him.

xxx

Guilt gnawed at him as he rose from her bed several hours later. Maybe he shouldn't have taken advantage of the situation and let himself indulge like that. No matter how much she had enjoyed it. He knew there were scrapes and half-moon cuts on his back from her nails, but they were inconsequential. He had bigger problems to deal with, his jaw setting in a tense line of frustration.

Frustration that she loved him; that he loved her. His work, his past would always get in the way of any future he ever dared to think about. And she hadn't helped tonight. She had still refused to talk to him, to tell him the truth of anything that he didn't already know. He glanced back at her one last time as he silently dressed. He didn't like that she was forcing his hand, but then again, there were a lot of things in his life that he didn't like.

He stepped silently through her apartment, seeking out her backpack. It was the obvious place to start. He found it by the door where she had left it in her haste to get out from under his scrutiny.

The contents were predictable—wallet, flash-drives, sunglasses, calculator, chapstick— until his fingers finally grazed the cold plastic of a cell phone. He smirked, finding it adorable. She really did make it all too easy for him. It was sweet in a way, knowing that she either didn't care or didn't know how to hide her secrets from him.

He stared down at the phone in victory. It certainly wasn't the white and blue phone he saw her with all the time. This one was slim and black, a cheap throwaway. Whoever gave this to her didn't intend for her to use it long.

There were only two texts and no calls.

 _Michael Bard. BARD9708236MT9IJ 32_

 _Tomorrow. 7 am. Michael will pick you up. You talk, your man dies._

He suspected as much. They were after her for what she knew, what she had access to. Of course, the number was blocked via the conventional phone interface, but he knew if he could get it to the Grid and wake up Tariq, he could learn a whole lot more. But did he have the time for that? 4:47 am. Hardly.

He turned off the phone display, returning it and the other contents back to her bag, effortlessly slouching it back against the wall just as she had done. Shrugging into his coat, he left the warmth of her place behind, silently slipping out into the pitch black of early morning.

If she wasn't willing to work with him to help him help her, then he had no choice. He would have to do things his way.


	9. Nuclear Drawings

**Chapter 9: Nuclear Drawings**

Somehow, amazingly, she was managing to keep her breakfast down. After waking to discover that Lucas was gone – not too surprising – she had gone about the rest of her morning with a numb sort of detachment. This was it – the big day.

The drive had so far been mostly silent. He picked up her in a nondescript four-door car and the countryside was passing too swiftly for her taste. She wanted more time to think about their route to and from the vault. The full-time security escort required for vault access would make their exit tricky. But maybe after getting Illya there, she could tell the guard and use the vault to corner him. It seemed simple enough. Maybe that would be enough.

"You didn't tell him?" Illya's voice, after so much silence, took her by surprise.

"No." She couldn't bring herself to admit to anything more. The low chuckle that rumbled in his throat drew her gaze from the window, sparking her anger.

"You must really feel something for that man…surprising, and sad for you."

"There's nothing sad about it." She snapped, glaring at him. "If you have someone that you love, Lucas will find out – maybe not before we have finished what we're planning to accomplish today, but I do know this – you won't make it out of the plant alive, and he will find those you care about." She didn't really have any clue if Lucas could lean on any of Illya's potential loved ones, but it sounded good. A smug smirk flashed on Illya's face.

"Your homeland cop will not find anyone that I care about living on British soil."

"Then why are you doing this?" It was the one big question that she was dying to ask. "Why are you making me prove my love for him by breaking you into Windark?"

"You are not so stupid – you know the value of the information in the vault. Further questions will get you nowhere." She chewed her lip in mounting frustration. Yes, she knew the contents of the vault – all the security information that, in the wrong hands, would bring the plant down, disable safety systems, and result in a nuclear meltdown. It wasn't a good scenario.

"Pull over." She suddenly said. "We need to switch places." He didn't even bother to cast her his incredulous glance.

"Give you control of the steering wheel, only to drive the other direction and fuck your man over? I don't think so."

"Wrong," her voice left no room for debate, "it's gate security on the inroad– visitors are not allowed to drive a car on plant property without advanced vetting. They will ask to see our badges before letting us drive on site, and since you don't have one, we won't get far." He frowned, but kept on driving, considering her words. Her lips lifted in a hint of a victorious smirk. It was evident that he knew quite a bit about operating nuclear facilities and their practices, but it was rewarding to throw out something he didn't already know about.

"Very well," he mumbled begrudgingly, easing on the break and pulling over to the shoulder, "but if you so much as sneeze and the wheel twitches off our current course, I will make the call to London."

"Agreed."

They exited the vehicle, switching seats and continuing on the road. Within another fifteen minutes, the dome of the reactor building became visible in the distance, growing ever steadily bigger as they continued to approach. Never before had she been so anxious to see it.

At the inroad security gate, she slowed the car to a stop, flashing the guard in the booth her badge and what she hoped was a convincing smile. Without incident, the guard lifted the bar across the road and they proceeded into the plant. Her heart started racing. This was it. No going back now.

"Just follow my lead." She said, parking the car in the nearly-full lot.

"I know what happens for visitors. I show them my license, they give us each a nice lanyard and then we go through airport security, yes?" Illya sounded utterly bored and disinterested, looking around the parking lot. "Don't think I know so little."

"Sounds like you'll be just as much to blame if this doesn't work, then."

"No. Consider it more incentive for you to make this work." He reached for the door handle. "Come on, I won't have you stalling."

They emerged into the early morning sun and chill still in the air. It wasn't a long walk to the door of the Main Security Building, but each step felt like a step towards the gallows.

As they finished up at the desk, talked with the sergeant on duty, received their instructions and their escorted visitor lanyards, it scared her how well this was going. Somehow, he passed everything – the explosive detector, the badge scanner. It helped that he was dressed innocently enough in cargo khaki pants, forest green polo and black blazer. And as they cleared the turnstiles, exiting the building back into the sunshine, everything in the plant was now within arm's reach.

X

"We should grab then now." Haynes' voice was tense with displeasure as he watched the video feed from the surveillance camera on the back of the Main Security Building. "She brought him into my plant and that's reason enough to stop them."

"You can't yet," Lucas countered, watching them walk across the yard to another building. "If they don't reach their intended target, she has been threatened with consequences."

"And you have nothing on their intended target?" Haynes cast Lucas a disapproving glance. Ever since Lucas North had arrived two hours ago, flashing his MI-5 credentials and demanding to see the security shift lead, Haynes had been wary. And as security shift lead, it was Haynes' job to be wary of all threats posed against the facility.

"No. We only know that this man is using her, coercing her, to gain access to the facility." Haynes shook his head as they watched them enter the engineering building.

"I keep trying to run through the various scenarios of what they could actually accomplish." Haynes mused. "The reactor building is inaccessible during normal operation, and they would not be able to sabotage enough equipment to cripple the plant before we could take them out. And with the detectors, we know they don't have any explosives."

"At least none that your detectors could pick up."

"I don't like that line of thinking, North." Lucas shook his head to bite back a sharp reply as the CCTV monitor flashed to the feed from a different camera.

"You don't have to like it, but that doesn't rule it out as a possibility."

The pair had now reached her desk and she was dropping off her backpack, reaching for her hard hat. They watched as she picked up her phone, punching in a four-digit plant ID. Both Lucas and Haynes' heads snapped up as the security coordinator's phone started ringing. It was a short conversation, the coordinator's "Name?...Yes, at Access Control….Goodbye" reaching their ears as they walked over.

"Bernard," Haynes asked as he and Lucas approached, "who was that?"

"Gordon, Celia – ACAD 7489. She's requested a security escort for the safeguards vault."

X

"Both of you have been briefed on the handling of Safeguards information? Both of you are aware of the radiation work permit requirements?"

The security escort's questions were standard as they walked down the stairs from Access Control, all fitted in hard hats and radiation monitors. From here, it would be another couple of corridors and down some more stairs into the bowels of the Control Building to reach the vault. She had been down to it enough that rattling off the answers was second nature. Even more so fortunately now in her anxious state. Luckily enough, if she did look panicked, the security escort failed to notice.

The corridor leading to the vault was non-descript, lined with several unassuming doors along the way and several more on the other end. She supposed that's why the door to the vault stood out like an eyesore. It was a hulking structure of bright blue steel with a turn wheel and several lever handles, designed as a submarine door to withstand the strongest explosion in the plant's design parameters. Her heart was thundering so loud in her chest as they came to a stop, it was a wonder it didn't echo in the otherwise empty corridor.

At the card reader next to the vault door, the security escort scanned his badge first and she followed, letting Michael-cum-Illya scan last. After the repeated swipe of the security escort's badge, the heavy steel lock disengaged and the access light started flashing. With a grunt of effort, the escort pulled a lever on the thick door open, admitting the musty smell of the vault within. The lights flickered on as she and Illya entered the cramped space, the guard following and securing the door behind him.

She blew a sigh, the nervous adrenaline heightening her senses as she glanced among the piles of boxes and papers and rolled up drawings. It was always a shock to new vault visitors how disorganized it really was. For such a secure installation, it had every indication it was no more than a storage closet where every box or folder or cabinet that might contain something important was shoved and summarily forgotten about. A dusty computer sat in the corner for those pesky electronic documents that could only be worked on here, isolated and free of any network or outside hacking connection. She had known engineers to lock themselves away from hours down here on assignment; such a dreary prospect.

She had never looked for countermeasure information before. In fact, she wasn't even sure exactly what all he wanted, but she couldn't really ask. A sharp impact, the sound of bone snapping, and the slump of a body on the floor filled the small space. She turned with wide terrified eyes, horrified to see the guard on the ground, motionless.

"What did you do?" Her voice trembled, suddenly terrified for her life as Illya drew the firearm from the guard's holster.

"Followed the plan." He tersely replied, shedding his blazer to revel the polo shirt that he wore was emblazoned with the plant's name and logo. Her stomach sank as he started to strip the deceased guard of his bulletproof vest and firearms. It was then she realized – once he donned the guard's equipment, he would look just like a member of the plant security force, down to the uniform.

"That wasn't part of the plan." Her words were firm despite her pounding heart. "You are only here to find drawings…they will see us leave the vault without our escort and another security guard will be sent."

"This was always the plan – the security detail only gets in the way. And you will get us out before security finds us." He adjusted the vest and the holster on his right leg, sheathing the gun. "Now, we find those plans."

X

There were no cameras in the vault. It had been seventeen minutes since they had watched the three people disappear behind the solid door. And the wait was near maddening.

"What's the average length of time people spend in the vault?" Lucas asked, more to break the tension then any real reason. The camera outside the vault would show them when the door reopened.

"It's impossible to say – some engineers will spend a whole day down there; while others just five minutes. It depends what information they are looking for. And there's a wealth to choose from. Just a couple of drawing sheets from that room would be worth several million to a terrorist group."

"And yet no camera inside." It was a bit of a snide dig, but Lucas couldn't help it. It seemed positively asinine to him that there were no cameras inside the most secure room in the facility.

"The vault is surrounded by 0.75 m thick concrete in all directions with the exception of the steel vault door, and two ventilation shafts protected by welded metal grating. The vault is considered a single-point access room and those are not equipped with cameras." Haynes explained tersely as they both watched the monitor, just waiting for the vault door to reopen. Lucas crossed his arms over his chest, blowing a light sigh. He was trying to run through scenarios, trying to plan for what might happen next. This was always the worst part – the waiting before taking action. The sooner that Celia was out of danger, the better. Never mind the trouble she will face in the aftermath. The thought sent a pang through his heart, but he would have to contend with it later. Right now, he had a job to do.

"Ok, here we go." Haynes' voice was soft as the hallway lit in flashes from the vault access light and the heavy metal door started to swing open. Celia emerged first with the security guard behind her…but that was it.

"Hold on….," Lucas stepped closer, squinting at the screen as the vault door was maneuvered shut. "That's not the guard. That's Illya."

"Where's the guard?" Haynes asked, grave concern on his face.

"Still inside. Hopefully still alive – but look, he's taken all the escort's gear."

"Must be where all the paperwork and drawings they lifted are stashed – guard's vests are covered in pockets for all kind of tools." Haynes nodded as he continued to talk. "They wouldn't need the majority of those tools to affect a clean escape. The guard was rendered neutral, robbed and his pockets were emptied to stash the paperwork." They both just stared at the screen, watching the man and woman stand there, talking. Eventually, the woman started walking towards the other end of the corridor.

"Where is she going? That's not the door they entered from." Lucas looked to Haynes curiously, noting the pensive look on the security shift lead's face.

"She's leading him to the Fuel Building, via the south stairs." Haynes said softly. "There's nothing else resembling escape by taking those stairs. Everything else would just lead them back to the Control Building." Something of an impressed smirk lit Haynes' face. "She knows that someone will have seen three people going into the vault and only two coming out. It's a very clever move." He shook his head with a half smirk as Lucas met him with a serious gaze.

"The Fuel Building?" Lucas had to ask. This was their world, not his.

"The Fuel Building is not manned regularly – the guards do a round per shift, but most of the time it's a dark, humid concrete box. There's only one exit door to the yard, not counting the truck bay. All the other exit doors lead into the Control or Auxiliary Buildings. There's no critical equipment for reactor operation in the entire building, and if something is damaged, we have 71.3 hours until the fuel pool boils. Plenty of time to effect repairs." Haynes turned back to the screen with a nod. "If we're going to move, this is the time."

"Right," Lucas agreed, following Haynes' gaze to the monitor. "I'll go after them. Send a security team through the yard entrance after me in 5 minutes."

"10 minutes." Haynes countered. "It'll take you 5 minutes to reach the building. Clark will go with you and we'll greenlight all the doors on your route."

"Very well." Lucas tried not to grumble the words. The Windark security force was being remarkably accommodating given the circumstances, but he couldn't help the anxious restlessness was simmering just beneath his controlled exterior. For after hours of waiting and watching, this was finally his chance to be useful. He'd spent eight years feeling useless and he'd had enough of that for a lifetime.

"You should leave your coat. It a balmy 30 °C in there." Lucas turned from the screen on Haynes' word, hefting his firearm from his pocket before shrugging out of his coat. "She's leading him to the door on the midlevel. That'll be your best point of entry. Security backup will deploy in 10 and enter through the yard door on the refueling deck. That's where they will be trying to go."

"Right." Lucas met Haynes' eyes with a nod before glancing down to the safety of his gun, checking the safety was still engaged. For now.

"And one more thing, North." Lucas paused, a hint of frustration breaking through his gaze as he stopped at the door beside the other guard – Clark, presumably. "Discharge your firearm with the utmost discretion. This is still a secure facility and if I so much as suspect your intentions are otherwise, I will rain down hell on you all with the push of a button and no additional force." Haynes met Lucas' icy glare, the calm authority their positions demanded thick in the room. "Am I understood?"


	10. Fuel Showdown

**Chapter 10: Fuel Showdown**

The Fuel Building was dark and the air heavy with moisture, smelling vaguely of chlorine and other chemicals. Just as she had expected. If the lights had already been turned on, it would mean someone else was in the building. And that would have fucked up everything.

"What is this?" Illya snarled, accusingly. "If this is trap, you won't—."

"No trap," she quickly interrupted, turning for the panel on the wall to switch on the lights. "The Fuel Building isn't manned during normal operation. It's a quiet route to get out to the yard – not the most direct, but less chance of getting caught." A low buzzing, humming noise sounded high above their heads as the heavy industrial light fixtures kicked on. Slowly, the room illuminated in pale purple light as the powerful bulbs warmed up, revealing a high-ceilinged bay. The dark blue water of the fuel pool gleamed in the low light, surrounded by the open space of the fuel deck on the lower level below them. The midlevel corridor on which they stood overlooked the deck and ran along the outside of a long concrete walled room to a platform and a set of stairs. The upper level was the HVAC rooms and the catwalks to access the overhead crane.

She brushed past Illya and started down the corridor towards the stairs at the opposite end. The bay continued to get brighter as the lights gained strength, the water in the pool fading from a deep navy to a luminous turquoise. She could just make out the oblong shadows of the reactor fuel assemblies resting at the bottom of the pool.

"It's too hot in here." She turned over her shoulder at Illya's complaint, looking back at him as they kept walking.

"This is normal," she licked her lips, the words coming as a reaction from nerves. "If the ventilation systems weren't working, it would be a veritable sauna in here. Why, without proper heat transfer, the water in that pool will boil in about 75 hours, give or take, depending how recently the fuel was loaded."

"Enough with this science," he growled, stepping up closer to her, raising a strong hand to her shoulder, pushing her forward to stumble a step, "we need to get down there and focus getting out."

"The only set of stairs on this level is at the end of this platform." She loosely pointed to the door they were rapidly approaching. "But to go down, we have to go up." She stopped short as a strong grasp wrenched her arm, twisting her around and pulling her back.

"I warned you once about playing games." She gasped in pain as her left arm was forced back to an unnatural angle, some muscle or tendon threating to give. "But if you insist, you don't need your left arm to walk." She choked off a cry, pain mixing with fear as he twisted her arm again, emphasizing his point.

"It's – it's not a game," she defended, staring him down determinedly. She could do this. "The stairs on this level only lead to the upper level. From the upper level, at the other end, there's a staircase that leads down to the fuel deck." Anger surged in Illya's eyes, the mask of calm patience falling from his face.

"You're lying! This makes no sense."

"It makes perfect sense for event isolation theory. I'd explain it further, but you already said enough science. I am following your rules, dammit! Now, let me go so we can get out of here. It won't be long now before the security guard reaches the vault." He released her arm in a viscous motion, forcing the breath from her as it jerked her body forward.

"Then, we go. Now, and fast." Shaking, blood pounding in her ears, she focused on the door in front of her. Surely, the security force would be here by now. How had no one stopped them yet? She took to the stairs with Illya on her heels, her breath coming in shallow, anxious draws. This was starting to cut it too close.

"Stop. Shh." Illya stopped suddenly, reaching out to grab her arm again as she stilled her movements. The low humming of the light fixtures echoed in the concrete space, the soft sound of water gently moving. The fuel pool pumps must have turned on. "This is all normal…?"

"I don't hear anything else," she shook her head, listening again for anything unusual, a shred of hope. But she couldn't make out anything beyond the faint background noise. "Just the lights, the fuel pool water circulating…did you heard something?"

"Metal clicking…like the click of a latch, or handle." Her heart almost leapt at the implication. Maybe he had heard something? Over her own anxiety and footsteps on the stairs, it's possible she missed it. In fact, she really hoped she had missing something and they were no longer alone.

"I don't think so," she said at last. "If there was someone else in this building, we would know." She hoped she was wrong. God, please let her be wrong.

"Move now. Quietly." His voice had gone deadly calm, racing a chill down her spine. He reached for the guard's stolen gun, disengaging the safety with a soft click as they continued up the stairs. Her stomach sank, her pulse hammering at the implication as they rounded the landing and continued up towards the upper level catwalk entrance.

Eerie silence, accompanied by the steady, almost soothing background noise followed them the rest of the way up. Her stomach dropped as they emerged onto the catwalk, looking down through the grating at the midlevel corridor and the fuel deck below that. They were really high up. Their footfalls against the metal grating were impossible to muffle, but slowly they started to work their way across the network of catwalks to the staircase in the opposite corner of the building.

But then she heard it and her heart leapt in her chest. Measured footfalls. The scraping contact of metal on metal. The dragging of something heavy as it's released slowly, with the intent of being quiet. A door opening or closing. A guttural curse in Ukrainian left Illya as he stepped closer to her.

"What have you done, bitch? Lead them right to us!" He brought the gun up between them, her eyes widening to fix on the black metal. "You continue to play games – well, here's my own game. They shoot me, I shoot you." A startled cry left her as he wrenched her to him, pulling her backside tight against his chest, the cold metal of the gun brushing her temple.

"I don't see anyone – I didn't tell anyone!" She pleaded. "I told you a guard would check the vault – you can't blame me for that."

"Shut up." He pressed the gun tighter against her head, watching her bite her lip, trying to move away from it. "No, no…you're not moving from this until we are safe outside the gate. Come on, slow steps." Spurred by fear and adrenaline, she moved with him in a shuffle, walking backwards as they continued out. They were both watching the stairwell and the door, waiting. Her stomach tightened in anticipation to see a shadow moving up the stairs. Someone else was here. She fought down a nervous swallow, the gun tight against her temple, both her and Illya's gazes transfixed.

The door started to open and her knees threatened to give out at the sight that greeted her. Tears spilled unbidden from her eyes to see Lucas standing there, so calm, so sure, the light from overhead reflecting off the metal of his own gun pointed right at them.

"Let her go – you've threatened my life since the beginning. Not hers." His steady voice, cold and dangerous, echoed in the otherwise still bay.

"You have gun on us, I have gun on her...," she felt Illya shrug as she stayed still, trapped by him using her a shield, "we are matched, so I don't think so. I think she stays with me until I leave. And who knows? Maybe I'll just keep her. Find out what you've been enjoying." Lucas' gaze darkened as a lewd smile crossed Illya's face. "She's strong and a bad girl for breaking the rules like this. Punishment might be just what she needs." She shuddered in his grasp, disgusted and trying to hide away from the gun forced back to her temple. "That is, if she lives long enough."

"She'll live," Lucas countered, taking slow, cautious steps onto the nearest catwalk, "because if she doesn't, you sure as hell won't." Illya laughed at that, the vibrations rumbling against her back.

More scraping metal sounds echoed in the space, the harsh bright of daylight breaking the unnatural glow of the overheard lighting as the yard door on the fuel deck opened. A string of grumbled Ukrainian sounded in her ear as she struggled to see around Illya and through the grating. A security team, six, maybe seven strong had swarmed on the fuel deck, assault rifles all trained up at the them. She forced a nervous swallow as another anxious tear streamed down her cheek. How was she ever going to get out of this?

"Hold your position." Lucas called down, his deep, commanding voice filling out the cavernous space. "He has Gordon – hold until she's clear." Illya nodded with a slightly amused chuckle as he took another step back, dragging her with him.

"Yes, yes…so sentimental for your lady. You and those men could take me out right here, right now, but you won't – and all because you value the life of this woman so much."

"Her life should have never been something for you to gamble with."

"True. This is true. But then, matters of the heart don't make sense." Illya's hand moved so fast, a scream tearing from her lips. His gun fired as he moved, pinging and clanging metal ringing in her ears as he dragged her around with him and all too late, she realized what he had done. He had fired at the lock on the catwalk safety gate, which now swung open, leaving no barrier between the catwalk and the fuel pool, a good 10 meters below. In the struggle, she felt Illya's hand grasp her neck tight, forcing her head down, bending her body over to stare down at the glowing blue water below. Her hands instantly scrambled for purchase on the surrounding railing, pushing back against his grasp that threatened to propel her forward. This was it. This was how she was going die.

X

"Now you see," Illya started again, his tone smug and knowing, still shielding himself behind her. "Now you see what I will do?"

Lucas didn't lower his gun, remaining as he was, watching the situation unfold. With most of Illya's body still shielded behind hers, any attempt to shoot him now would likely end up in her taking a dive. But that might be a fair compromise. At least, she would be free of Illya and likely to live. Lucas had a good line of sight on the man's shoulder, if the man just shifted a little – even to redistribute his weight – it would be enough for Lucas to get off a good shot. Patience. That's what this was now.

"Yes, I see." He answered at length, waiting. Watching.

"Good," a victorious smirk flashed across Illya's face, "then go back down those stairs you come up. Tell those men on the deck to stand down – or better yet," he tightened his grip on her neck, a pained, startled gap sounding from her as her toes hung out over the edge, "tell them I want them as my escorts out."

There it was – just enough of a target opened up above the man's heart. It was simple enough for Lucas to pull the trigger, the shot deafening. Blood flew from the man's chest on the impact, a harsh, agonized cry tearing from his throat. The shot threw him off balance and he staggered forward, ramming into Celia, the hand at her neck tightening in a forward driving, downwards direction. In horrifyingly slow motion, Lucas could do nothing but watch as the man's weight crumpled onto Celia, propelling them both over the edge of the catwalk and falling through the air. He sprinted down the catwalk at her cry of sheer terror even though it was far too late to pull her back.

He reached the middle of the catwalk only to see them both hit, sending a fantastic spray of blue, radioactive water into the air as they disappeared beneath the surface.


	11. Radioactive Love

**Chapter 11: Radioactive Love**

If the radiation monitor alarmed again, he was just going to walk out. This was his fifth time in the monitor and it had alarmed every time. The radiation technician was being frustratingly unhelpful in telling Lucas anything that would speed up the process. Good at his job, Lucas had to admit, but the tech was the only thing standing between him and Celia.

After her fall into the fuel pool, the world had descended on the fuel deck – radiation technicians, more security force, plant officials, engineers, operations. He had spoken with so many different people about what happened, only able to watch as Celia got out the pool, swarmed by radiation techs. She was the only person he wanted to see and she was taken away for decontamination before he could even get close.

His eyes dropped closed, lips pursing in a thin line of annoyed frustration as the now-familiar alarm bell sounded.

"The contamination is moving. So, that's a good sign…your right shoulder this time." The tech, Jonah, beckoned him out of the monitor back over towards the gale force wind from the ventilation fan.

"How much longer?" Lucas shouted over the roar of the air, knowing he ought to cut the tech a break; the kid was just trying to do his job, after all.

"It just takes time - the ventilation is dispersing the radon. Your count gets lower each time we measure." The tech looked at him as he stood, coiled tight with frustration. "The longer you stand in the ventilation, the better. Non-cotton fabrics attract radon. It's just a fact." Lucas huffed an annoyed breath, glancing out to the radiation-free boundary to where Celia was sitting, waiting to be taken away. He had to get to her before that happened. "We are already going to get a shit ton of attention from the regulators over this, and I am not about to let an MI-5 officer out of here when he reads off the charts for radon contamination." Lucas' eyes shot deadly bullets, his frustration morphing into tense anger as he stood in the forceful downdraft, hair plastered to his scalp.

"Here, I'll just give you my shirt. I'm done with this bloody radon." His fingers rose to the buttons on his dress shirt, popping them open to reveal the dark undershirt beneath. If he missed Celia because of this, he would find some way to shut Windark down himself.

"I can't guarantee you'll get your shirt back." Jonah held up a bag marked with purple and yellow contamination stickers, nodding his head in the direction of the portal monitor. "Let's see how you count out."

"You can keep it for all I care." Lucas crossed the small space and stepped up into the radiation monitor, inserting his arm into the groove, snugging up to the machine. The countdown started with the flashing light signal as the machine measured the superficial contamination on his clothes. He stared the flashing light down, silently daring it to alarm again and incur his wrath. 4…3…2…1…0. Count complete and the light stopped flashing, a soft chime ringing in his ears instead of the blaring alarm.

"Congratulations, Lucas. You're free to go." Jonah offered up a weak smile, sealing up the bag with the shirt.

"About bloody time." Lucas huffed as he stepped out of the portal, across the radiation boundary. If he never had to deal with radiation or nuclear anything ever again, it would be too soon.

He walked down the hallway to where Celia sat, her hair still wet and head hung low, hands bound in front of her. He couldn't detect a note of regret in her downtrodden shoulders, only sad resignation. An ache in his heart was starting to undercut his anger the more he looked at her. She was dressed in navy scrubs that hung loose and misshapen against her body after having gone through decontamination. He kneeled down silently beside her, dying to see her eyes that always told him so much.

"Is Jonah always that strict about his job?" He tried to keep his voice soft.

"Like he told you…it's his job to ensure all radiation stays behind the line." She could barely bring herself to look at him, but she felt his eyes heavy on her. He licked his lips, loosing a small sigh.

"I can understand breaking into the vault," he started softly, contemplatively, "all the classified security information; the one room that contained all the secrets about how to bring Windark down."

"Even with the drawings he wanted, I don't think that would have been enough to make control of the plant fall into the wrong hands. And that's even if we would have made it out of the plant without getting shot."

"We'll never know now, will we?" He idly speculated, his anger flaring back up inside him. She swallowed hard, exhaling a shaky breath. "Look at me, Celia." There was something heartbreaking in his voice that she couldn't ignore. She turned her head, lifting her gaze, tears glistening in her eyes the minute she met his.

"If you're going to ask me if I regret it, the answer is no. The bad guy was stopped without risking the life of the good guy. Can't say that happens every day."

Frustration tightened the lines of his face. "There would have been a way—several ways that we could have reached the end by a different means, without either one of us losing our lives. You should have trusted me." He shook his head, forcing a hard swallow. "I cannot help you now."

"I won't ask for it; I didn't yesterday and I won't now." The conviction in her voice was unnerving. "I knew the consequences for my actions and I accept them." She drew a trembling breath, biting her lip. "I told you that I would cut ties with this place, one day, for the right guy," she tried to summon an ironic smile, "though, I had always thought I would do it with just a letter." She sniffed, looking down at her bound hands, unable to stand the hurt in his eyes that looked like betrayal. "The only thing I was naïve enough to hope for was that I wouldn't lose you, too. Even though I was – if not saving your life, at least eliminating one less threat – I knew I probably wouldn't see you again." A small, sad smile of softened the thin line of his lips.

"I can't storm another nuclear plant for you." The note of finality on his voice sealed the fate she already knew was unavoidable. The first tear rolled down her cheek as she nodded her head, her face otherwise unchanged as she looked back to his eyes. His soulful, glacial eyes that she had come to love so much. He couldn't stop himself from lifting a hand to her cheek, sweeping at the trail of moisture with the pad of his thumb. She leaned into the touch, savoring it for the last time.

"I like to think I actually had a chance with you." She said softly, her words more a breath than sound. If he were not so tightly bound by duty, the look in her eyes would have her sobbing against his chest, sweet murmurs of lies that everything would be alright passing his lips.

"I abandoned hope for a chance at a normal life years ago, Celia…but you convinced me that it might just be possible. You won't be easy to forget." She nodded her head slowly, knowingly in silent agreement, committing the feel of his hand to memory.

"You, too. If I had anything to forgive you for, I would, but I don't. You have nothing but my goodwill and love…I think you may always have that."

"Celia Gordon." They both turned at the authoritative voice, her heart dropping to her stomach as Lucas' hand fell away. Two men, armed and decked in plant security force uniforms, had entered from the corridor west door to join the other who was currently keeping watch. "Time to go. There's a vehicle here and police escort to transfer you to Millbank prison, awaiting trial for charges of subversion and nuclear terrorism." She sighed nervously, casting one last glance back at Lucas before gathering herself to rise. He followed her up, distant concern written in the lines of his impassive face.

"Goodbye, Lucas. Thank you…for everything. I know how it sounds right now, but…you saved me from drinking that bottle of wine all by myself." His mind instantly flashed back to that first night—the wine, the questions, the exciting spark of possibility. An overwhelming sense of loss ached his chest as he watched her turn from him, stepping forward to willingly submit to her escorts.

"Celia…," he looked after her, his gaze reflecting the love he couldn't force himself to hate, "vanilla or chocolate?" A smile cracked the sad lines of her face, lifting her cheeks, brightening her eyes through the unshed tears.

"Vanilla." Her smile softened as she gazed back at him over her shoulder, the guard taking hold of her arm to guide her forward.

"Chocolate." He answered, a soft grin on his face. She turned back around, still smiling as a tear slid down her cheek. All he could do was watch as the men lead her forward down the stretch of corridor, through the double doors and out to the world beyond.

He looked around the now empty space, wondering if there was anything else that he needed to do. He should probably check back in with Haynes in Security before leaving the plant. But what about the drive to London? One and a half hours to himself to think on everything, on Celia. A longing ache spiked in his chest on thought.

He huffed an annoyed breath, shaking his head as if to banish his thoughts and the frustration that threatened to return to the surface. Hadn't he been through enough already? Hadn't he suffered enough pain and loss? Did Celia really have to be just another entry on the list?

Maybe not. She broke his trust, yes, but she was doing what she thought best – protecting him. But protecting him at the risk of sacrificing others? That was something he couldn't abide. It was dangerous to love someone with that much conviction. He doubted anyone else would ever love him with such devotion, and maybe that was alright. Wasn't it? Maybe not.

There was too much unknown. Too much had yet to happen. He would be swept up in the legal process of it all – reports and interviews. He hoped to God he wouldn't be called in to actually testify in a courtroom. It seemed so likely that they would find her guilty. But maybe not. She was a victim, yes, but she let herself fall victim without even putting up a fight.

Celia knew the workings of Windark when she agreed to the demands of breaking in, and probably viewed it as low risk given how capable the force had proved itself from defending within. She would certainly lose her nuclear clearance and any future chance of gaining a similar level of access. Maybe that would be a short enough leash. Maybe that would be enough of a punishment.

He started for the double doors, on his way back to the security station to pick up his coat and return his temporary bade.

Maybe, just maybe it would be enough.

 _Fin_

 _xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

 _Thank you for reading! -MidnightB_


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